


A Different Stage

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Series: Actual Tennis Samurai [3]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M, Tennis Boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 82,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Plop a bunch of arrogant tennis playing boys in high school, and it's going to be an adventure. There's also the fact that some of them like to play matchmaker, some of them insist on staying stuck on boys that like other boys, and in general, there's just a lot of tennis going around. </p><p>(Really, this all starts because Atobe wants to make sure Fuji leaves Tezuka alone for good, but that's beside the point.)</p><p>Rikkai shenanigans, Atobe shenanigans, and Fuji being a fruit loop. Inside jokes abound. Continuation (technically) of My Life, Which Has Not Flowered, but more a comedy of errors than anything else. Perpetually unfinished, because it's mostly just hormonal boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Atobe has been taught to appreciate the finer things in life, and that includes the resplendence of a lazy afternoon.

 

It’s entirely more difficult to get Tezuka to appreciate it _with_ him, but that’s part of the price he pays for having something prized so dearly by so many, and himself in particular. It’s worth it, to have Tezuka’s glasses just on the tip of his nose as he reads in a lawn chair poolside, as content as Tezuka ever gets, as Atobe swims laps and (occasionally) practices diving into the deep end. It’s certainly a coincidence that Tezuka happens to be reading right by the place Atobe always hits the water.

 

“Say, Kunimitsu,” he calls, slowly backstroking down the length of the pool, feeling the sun bake his already-tanning skin to a slow golden. Memories of an earlier conversation haunt him slightly, and he can’t help but think…. “What did Fuji do to you, that you still punish him so?”

 

For the most part, Tezuka tunes Atobe out. It's easier that way, when 99.9% of the things that come out of his mouth are ridiculous. This particular question, however, is just shy of confusing, and so his eyes flick up over the edge of his book, brow furrowing. "Fuji? I'm not punishing him for anything. In fact, I haven't even spoken to him for weeks; he's been quite busy, or so I hear." 

 

“Ah, not that. I mean in general.” Atobe reaches the other end of the pool, no small feat given its size, and kicks off, turning a neat underwater somersault before swimming back towards Tezuka. “How did he confess, anyway? Was it tasteless? Is that why you’re so cruel?”

 

Tezuka's head tilts to the side ever so slightly. "…Confess what? What am I being cruel about?" 

 

Atobe stops mid-lap, almost inhaling water for a moment before he starts treading. “You can’t be serious. He _must_ have confessed to you by now. Kunimitsu, he’s obviously in love with you.”

 

He was wrong to not tune Atobe out this time. It's just as ridiculous as always. Tezuka sighs and drops his gaze back to his book. "You've been out in the sun too long. Fuji isn't in love with me, we're merely friends."

 

“Kunimitsu, so _cruel_. I think I would recognize the signs better than you, no? Apart from my undeniable chemistry and brilliance in all things related to love, you _must_ admit that you’re the last person to notice when someone’s in love with you. Demonstrably.”

 

Admittedly, Fuji has always been _odd_. He seems to attract those sorts of people, if Atobe is any indication. That being said, he's never really noticed much of anything outside of Fuji standing around him for longer than absolutely necessary, or staring at him for absolutely no reason at all, but that's _Fuji_. He has always kind of been like that. Atobe did those things, but followed them up a lot less…passively. So obviously...

 

"Even if that's the case," Tezuka replies, an edge of exasperation to his voice as he sets his book down, "why does it matter? It isn't as if I'm interested." 

 

Atobe frowns. No, he doesn’t like that expression. He straightens it into an easy smile--much better. “But this causes a black stain on my otherwise unimpeachable honor, Kunimitsu. How can I rest easy, knowing that I’ve poached from him the object of his...rather _unconventional_ desire? Something _must_ be done. Right, Kabaji?”

 

“Uss.”

 

"…How does it do anything to your honor?" Atobe makes his head hurt. "Please don't make this into a spectacle." It's probably too late.

 

“Yes, of course, it’s essential that honor be satisfied,” Atobe says, mostly to himself. “Yes! I’ve decided. We’re going to play matchmakers for Fuji Shuusuke!”

 

Tezuka strangles down a groan. "Pass," he flatly replies, pulling his book firmly back up to his face. 

 

“Not allowed,” Atobe says cheerfully, raising himself up out of the pool. He walks, dripping wet and obviously glorious, over to stand by Tezuka. “You can help me,” he offers, “or you, me, and that rare book you’re reading can go for a swim. Doesn’t that sound _refreshing_?”

 

The book is clutched tighter still. "You don't even _like_ Fuji." 

 

“This has nothing to do with _liking_ ,” Atobe says dismissively, standing closer to drip threateningly close to Tezuka and his precious novel. “I told you, it’s _honor_. You must want your second in command to be happy, no? Or what sort of a monster would you be?”

 

" _Oishi_ was my vice-captain, Fuji was in no way fit for that task," Tezuka protests with a frown, hunching over his book. "Either way, I'm sure Fuji is happy in his own way now, with his…cacti, or whatever his other hobbies included." 

 

“Ah, yes. I always tend to forget Oishi--he does have that effect, I believe.” Atobe swings a leg around, straddling Tezuka’s legs. “I don’t need your help, you know. But I might tend to contact all of your old friends and be sort of...what was the word you used? Overpowering? Awe-striking? Stunning in every form?” It couldn’t have been _embarrassing_ , no matter what Atobe’s obviously flawed memories report.

 

"Embarrassing. It was definitely embarrassing," Tezuka flatly retorts, his face already flushing hot. He should be used to Atobe climbing all over him by now, but _honestly_ … "There's no need for you to contact any of them. Why would you do that, anyway? They will just tell Fuji you're being ridiculous and he'll ask for you to stop." 

 

Atobe leans forward, casually spreading Tezuka’s legs to squirm between them. “I will bet you,” he says with a grin, grabbing a cell phone from nearby, checking a number quickly, and shutting it again, “six billion yen that if you called Fuji right now, he’d freely admit to being in love with you. And you don’t care?”

 

"Keigo, get _off_ ," Tezuka growls, snapping his book closed to shove it into Atobe's face as a means of putting _some_ distance between them. "I don't want to call him and talk about any of that. Why would I want to stir something like that up?" 

 

It takes a lot of effort not to toss the book into the pool. Not because Atobe lacks any kind of appreciation for fine works of art, simply because Kunimitsu is so _dense_ sometimes that it takes forever to get through to him. “Right now,” he says, grabbing the book and tossing it lightly to the side _away_ from the pool, “there might be someone who considers you a friend, a good friend, that you consider a friend, who is in considerable distress. He may be hurt. He may be going home every evening with an aching heart after yet again, he’s been ignored, passed over, or simply rejected out of hand. This person that you apparently care about is also sort of a fruitcake, and who’s to say in his misery, he won’t try to drown his sorrows in alcohol, in gambling, in even suicide? How cold can you _be_?” He leaves out the part about how he knows, obviously, since someone as glorious as himself would need several notebooks in order to record even the names of every confessor. That’s hardly relevant to the current problem, and will just make Tezuka tune him out.

 

"He's never even made a _pass_ at me." Right? That has to be the case. He'd certainly notice something like that, because Fuji is rarely _subtle_. Strange, bizarre, with a tendency to be a…fruitcake, yes, that's the right word for it for sure, but never subtle in any of those things. 

 

Even so, Tezuka has the sudden urge to pick up the phone and at least ask Oishi if _he_ thought Fuji was of this particular persuasion--except he hates making phone calls and talking about anything related to this topic and so that idea flies out the window immediately. "I'm not being cold. Not…there's just nothing _there_ ," Tezuka tries again, frowning. "I don't know why you're suddenly so obsessed with the idea, but _you_ take care of it if you think you need to. Don't involve me." 

 

“Here,” Atobe says, switching tack at the speed of thought. He picks up another phone, adding to Tezuka, “Anonymous number. Let’s see what he says.” 

 

**To: Fuji Shuusuke**

**From: [Redacted for Reasons of National Security]**

**Subject: Tezuka Kunimitsu**

**Body: Interested?**

 

“Let’s see what kind of response that gets,” Atobe says cheerfully, sending the message.

 

Tezuka just settles for staring at him plaintively, 3000% conveying _why would you_ do _this?_

 

It takes a moment before the phone buzzes in return. _Eiji, if this is you, no party later._

 

Atobe looks at the phone for a moment, frowning. “Let me try again.”

 

**Re: Eiji why**

**Body: Let me clarify that this is not a ransom note. This is merely to ascertain interest in one Tezuka Kunimitsu. Please respond promptly.**

 

“Does that look better to you, Kunimitsu?”

 

"Why would that look better to me at all?" Tezuka snaps. 

 

Buzz. _Seriously, no party later._

 

Buzz. _And if you aren't Eiji, then you should let me know who you are so I can give you a personalized opinion about your own existence._

 

Buzz. _Haha, but really, Yuuta, if you gave your friend-that-I-can't-remember this number, we're going to have words._

 

Buzz. _And if that's really the case, at least leave Tezuka out of it._

 

“I don’t understand any of this,” Atobe complains, and tosses the phone to Tezuka. “What’s he talking about? What’s a Yuuta?”

 

"Please just stop while you're ahead," Tezuka mutters, and promptly tosses the phone into the pool.

 

Undaunted, Atobe grabs another phone. “Ah, this one matches your eyes, how charming.”

 

**To: Fuji Shuusuke**

**Subject: What on earth is a yuuta**

**Body: Does it offend you to speak of Tezuka? Perhaps, of the color of his eyes?**

 

For good measure, Atobe snaps a picture and includes it. He’s no longer quite sure what he’s trying to do, but Tezuka is trying to stop him, so it’ll probably be fun.

 

Buzz. _Okay, really, who is this?_

 

"Stop _bothering_ him," Tezuka exasperatedly retorts, grabbing at the phone. 

 

Buzz. _Are you certain this isn't a ransom note? I've been advised to call the police._

 

“He wants to call the police,” Atobe reports, slightly puzzled. “Perhaps you should speak to him after all.” He hands over the phone, and blinks at Tezuka expectantly.

 

Tezuka throws that phone into the pool, too. "Did you really think he would just come out and say it if he had the supposed obsession with me that you think he does?" he snaps. "The only obsession he ever had was beating me in tennis."

 

“I did think he might, yes,” Atobe says, unperturbed. “You do realize that now your friend thinks you’re being held for ransom, right? Ah, well, it’s not as if they’ll find you. I’m sure your parents won’t be worried.”

 

He puts the problem of the police aside for the moment, looming over Tezuka. “Are you really so afraid of his answer to a serious question? Is it concern for his feelings, or for your own, that you don’t want to be the sort of man who leads anyone on?”

 

Tezuka opens his mouth, then shuts it again, frowning as he sinks back. "I never led him on about anything," he insists. "And I'm not concerned, I just…what's the _point?_ Even if he is interested in me like you say he is, it isn't going to change anything."

 

“Because _people_ ,” Atobe says carefully, eyes very wide, “ _care_ whether their friends are _happy_. Oi, Kabaji, are you happy?”

 

“Uss.”

 

“Which makes me happy! And you have an extra duty as a captain to make certain that none of your players are depressed, even if you’re no longer their captain, don’t you? I know I still feel responsible for such things.”

 

"…But if you're right about Fuji, then there isn't anything I can do to make him happy outside of being with him," Tezuka slowly says, wariness clear on his face. "And I don't want that. At all. And I don't think you can make him have those sorts of feelings for someone else so easily, so your matchmaking idea won't work, either." 

 

“No, it’s easy!” Atobe says, slightly more enthusiastic now. “It’s possible that he just hasn’t entertained the thought of being with anyone else because he’s so hung up on you. But if you were to let him down gently, followed by my glorious matchmaking skills, he’ll be able to move on with style and grace!”

 

"Why do I have to let him down when he hasn't even confessed to me in the first place?" This is becoming gradually more stressful. Tezuka doesn't like that at all. Why did he agree to come here over Atobe's summer break again? 

 

Atobe leans forward, scooting into Tezuka’s lap and brushing the hair gently out of his eyes. “Because you don’t want your friend to be miserable.” He leans forward, lips just barely brushing over Tezuka’s ear. “I’ll _reward_ you, if you do.”

 

"Stop it," Tezuka mutters, his face going hot again as he lifts a hand up to cover Atobe's mouth. "Either way, I don't understand how he could be _less_ miserable if I let him down. Just leave him be already." 

 

Atobe frowns, regardless of the muscles it costs him in his face. Then he slowly brings a hand up to Tezuka’s wrist, lowering it. “Think of how you feel when we’re together,” he says quietly. He traces a fingertip up the back of Tezuka’s hand, down each finger, slowly stroking. He meets Tezuka’s eyes, and says, “I feel bad that someone might never get to experience this because of an old wound. Let it close up, already. Trust me, I interfere in the lives of my team members all the time, they _love_ it. They’ll even admit it, afterwards. Some of them. Not the ungrateful ones, but you can’t count Shishido into something like this.”

 

 _Can't we just play tennis and call it even_ is on the tip of his tongue, and Tezuka's own frown deepens as he sinks back. Why would anyone _enjoy_ having their lives interfered with like that? He can't think of a single person on his old team that really would, and to be perfectly honest, how would he even go _about_ something like that? "I think Fuji has a stronger constitution than you give him credit for," he murmurs, his fingers slowly curling. "Besides, even if I did agree to this, it isn't like I can just call him out of the blue to tell him that I'm not interested in him."  

 

“I don’t see why not,” Atobe says, relaxing down onto Tezuka’s hips, straddling him easily and enjoying the burn in his thighs--yes, nice stretch, must try something like this more often. Perhaps closer to Tezuka’s mouth…

 

“Like you said, he’s a bit of a fruitcake. Or perhaps just don’t wear that scarf the next time you see him, that’ll do the trick.”

 

A strangled noise leaves Tezuka's throat. "I…well, it isn't as if I'm going to be wearing it in this heat, so you should refrain from leaving those marks so…obviously." 

 

“If he isn’t in love with you,” Atobe murmurs, dipping his head down to brush his lips lightly over the skin of Tezuka’s neck, “then he should have no problem seeing where someone else has been. Am I wrong?” He sets his teeth to the skin, following it with a long, slow suck.

 

_Missing the point, no one else has to see either, why do you always have to do things like this?_

 

None of that quite makes it out, not when Tezuka is focused on keeping his mouth shut and teeth gritted so he doesn't just _moan_. He swallows hard around a sound that suspiciously resembles a whimper, and grabs at Atobe's shoulder to push him back (rather half-heartedly). " _Quit it_ ," he finally manages to rasp. "This isn't making your intentions seem noble at _all_." 

 

“How dare you,” Atobe murmurs, far from displeased. He knocks Tezuka’s hand away, following his suck with another, higher, less easily-concealed on his neck. “I’ve never done an ignoble thing a day in my life. Of course no matter what I do, it tends to turn noble in nature sooner or later.” He bites Tezuka’s earlobe gently, tugging with his teeth and flicking it with his tongue. “Trust me, Kunimitsu. I know you hate people, but I don’t.”

 

A pointed shudder goes straight down Tezuka's spine, and his eyes roll back when he tries not to squirm. "I don't _hate_ people," he protests on a groan, the chair creaking underneath him when he makes an attempt to wriggle away. The most unfair thing in the world is attempting to argue with Atobe when he's doing…things. Things like being on him, and chewing on him, and--anything else that Atobe likes to think of. "Can you at least…don't do this out _here_." 

 

“Kabaji.”

 

“Uss.”

 

“Get everyone else out.”

 

“Uss.”

 

Among a couple protests from those at the far end of the pool--too far to see anything, but Atobe _knows_ how Tezuka is--the pool is quickly evacuated of everyone but the two of them. Atobe grins, and his teeth snap lightly in front of Tezuka’s ear. “As private as the Pope’s bathroom. You were saying?”

 

"What the hell is that comparison," Tezuka mumbles, swallowing hard. Still, he slowly lifts a hand, loosely curling it against Atobe's back, his thumb brushing along the bumps of his spine. "You don't _always_ have to make a spectacle of things." 

 

“But what’s life without a little of the _dramatics_?” Atobe asks, rolling his back slowly against Tezuka’s touch. Another scrape of teeth, and he wriggles, grinding his (admittedly perfect) ass down against Tezuka’s hips. “Life exists to be spectacular.”

 

"Can't it also be quiet and easily managed once in awhile?" It's a pointless question to ask Atobe, he knows. Tezuka sucks in a slow, hitching breath, and he can't quite _help_ the way his hand slides down, thumbing the jut of Atobe's hip that peeks out from his swim trunks. 

 

Atobe laughs breathlessly in Tezuka’s ear, hands wandering to cup Tezuka’s face as he kisses the other boy thoroughly, nipping at his lips, tasting his mouth. Then one wanders into his hair, tugging his head back while the other thumbs down across his chest. “I’m never quiet or easily managed.”

 

God, doesn't Tezuka know it.

 

He huffs his agreement rather than speaks it, his lips already slick and swollen from their kisses when he leans his head back into Atobe's tug, breath reduced to shallow pants. Tezuka's own hand moves, hesitantly catching at the waistband of Atobe's shorts, then brushing down, following the outline of his hard cock before curling around it to slowly squeeze.

 

Atobe’s breath comes out in something like a purr, and his hips gyrate slowly, rubbing his cock against Tezuka’s hand. “I like when you take what you want,” he murmurs, voice low and throaty. “I’ll give it to you, Kunimitsu. You don’t have to talk, I’ll do all the talking.” He brushes his thumb over Tezuka’s lips as he sits back on his heels, deliberately grinding down against Tezuka’s cock. “You like hearing my voice telling you how much you’re going to love it anyway.”

 

Tezuka's vision blurs a little at how fast blood rushes south, and his breath catches hard in his chest when his hips twitch up, his own cock achingly hard as it grinds up against Atobe's ass. There's no helping the way his tongue flicks out against the tip of Atobe's thumb, or the way he tips his head forward to suck it eagerly into his mouth with a groan caught up in his throat. How they always end up at this point is usually something of a blur, but he can't find it in himself to _care_ , not when it always feels like this. 

 

Atobe grins, eyes lidding heavily as his cock swells. “Ah, I lied already,” he murmurs, and leans down to nip at Tezuka’s ear. “You _do_ have to say something, Kunimitsu. Tell me,” he purrs, hips grinding in slow circles, “whether you want me in here…” he reaches back, squeezing Tezuka’s ass through his slacks, “or in _here_ ,” he finishes, dragging the tip of his thumb over Tezuka’s tongue.

 

From the way his toes curl already, Tezuka has to wonder, a little desperately, if Atobe is going to put it in _anywhere_ before he loses himself just from the way Atobe _says things_. Tezuka shudders, squirming with his fingers pawing, palm dragging against Atobe's cock as he curls his fingers into the waistband of his shorts. "I…" His voice rasps at the edges, and he tries for a steadying breath. It doesn't help, only makes his chest heave, and he drops his head back with a ragged, breathless noise. "I-in my mouth."

 

Jesus, Tezuka should be illegal. Atobe makes a stupid strangled noise, repressing it as quickly as he can, and crawls slowly forward, opening his shorts while still kneeling on top of Tezuka. One hand goes back to his hair, holding his head up gently as he frees himself with the other hand, not even bothering to take off his shorts. He lurches forward slightly on accident, bumping the sticky, dripping head against Tezuka’s cheek before guiding it to his lips. “Take it, then,” he breathes, and it’s hoarse, needy when he does.

 

Tezuka thinks he whimpers. It's a hungry, needy sound when his lips part, his head craning up a bit to better suck the head of Atobe's cock past his lips, panting a hot, ragged breath out through his nose when the slick slide of him over his tongue makes him swallow hard. He squirms, his fingers splaying helplessly against Atobe's thighs when his mouth slides further down for a wet, messy suck, his eyes fluttering shut when he can't even dare to look up at Atobe any more, not when he likes sucking him so much, not when his own cock is hard enough to make it difficult to breathe.

 

Atobe holds it in for a bare second, then lets out a few choice curses in...some language, he’s not entirely sure which. Smart money is on French, they have lovely curses for this specific situation.

 

“Kunimitsu,” he groans, raising up on his knees, eyes locked on Tezuka’s face. He slides forward slowly, and discovers that he’s totally unprepared for how Tezuka looks with his mouth stretched out, eyes crossing slightly, drooling and eager for Atobe’s cock.

 

He swears again, and has to look away for a moment, gulping breaths and trying not to just _finish_ , but it’s too late. Tezuka’s far too lewd, and Atobe groans, hand tightening too hard in his hair as he ruts in, hearing Tezuka’s little gagging noises and much more aroused than he had intended to be. 

 

He spills hard, coming in hot spurts down Tezuka’s throat, on his tongue, and it’s with too much satisfaction that he watches some spill out between previously-sealed lips.

 

That _shouldn't_ make him lose it as easily as it does.

 

The mess should make Tezuka shy away, or protest, or complain in _some_ form, but instead it all goes straight to his cock that he can taste Atobe, that there's nothing but that slick, musky mess on his tongue and lips and there's no way he can swallow all of it, not when Atobe's pulling on his hair and riding his face like that. Tezuka strains to pull his head back just a bit, enough to pant out one ragged, desperate breath before he comes without another touch, squirming with his nails digging into Atobe's thighs, his toes curling hard in his shoes until the tension from that even cramps his legs. 

 

Atobe sags back on his heels, drawing in deep breaths that don’t help him _calm down_ at all, that barely help keep him upright. His eyes lid, but don’t close as he grins slowly, even though even his _facial_ muscles feel worn-out. He reaches an unsteady hand back, pawing up between Tezuka’s legs. “That was enough for you?” he breathes, chest still heaving. “What a perfect thing you turned out to be.”

 

Tezuka jerks and shudders all over again, twisting partially away from the touch when all his mind can process is _too much too sensitive don't not now._ "Y…ah--y-your fault, stop it already--"

 

“Shhh, it’s fine.” Atobe moves his hand away, bringing himself slowly to a standing position beside Tezuka’s chair, ruffling his tousled hair. “Though I must admit, the way you _squirm_ …” He lowers down, whispering in his ear, “It makes me want to clean you off with my mouth.”

 

The noise that leaves his throat is more akin to a whine than anything. "I'm going to kick you into the pool," Tezuka manages to whisper, twisting partially onto his side.

 

“I’m not sure you could handle that right now,” Atobe teases, grateful for how much stamina he’s built up over years of practice. He sags forward a bit, biting Tezuka’s neck softly. “You make me feel like I could go all day. Ahh, you’re unsafe.”

 

Ah, that's another shudder that goes straight to his cock--too soon, too soon--and Tezuka half-heartedly swats at Atobe with all the strength of a newborn kitten. " _You're_ unsafe." Great comeback, there. 

 

“Unsafe, and not terribly snappy with comebacks,” Atobe says cheerfully. He lets go of Tezuka’s neck, standing up and stretching. “Mm, no, there’s no reason to try.” Whatever, he’d only put pants on in the first place to have the joy of taking them off on top of Tezuka, and they’re certainly ruined now. He tips backwards, landing in the water with a splash, and that at least makes him feel a little less _sticky_. “You should join me, Kunimitsu. Just the thing to refresh.”

 

"…When my legs start working again." Or maybe he'll just take a shower. Tezuka groans and half-buries his face down into an arm. "I don't want to die just yet." 

 

“You always say that, but you _know_ I’ll save you,” Atobe says, slightly grumpy. “I’ve been swimming in five of the seven seas.”

 

"Sometimes you dunk me under. You want me to drown." 

 

“Only so I can be your hero,” Atobe agrees cheerfully. “But you can bake up there today. Nice tan.”

 

Tezuka scrunches up underneath the umbrella a bit more, only to realize that's very uncomfortable and as sticky as he is, there's no real help for _chafing_. Grimacing, he kicks off his shoes, undoes his belt, and slides out of his pants before _delicately_ sliding into the water, his glasses set next to the edge of the pool. "No hero things," he flatly warns.

 

“Not unless you start to drown,” Atobe promises. As a show of good faith, he doesn’t even cross his fingers, especially because Tezuka wouldn’t understand what that means anyway. “Doesn’t the water feel exceptionally gorgeous?”

 

"The pool is heated. It's always like this." Tezuka slinks down all the same, until the water level comes up over his nose for a few seconds. "…But you're right, it's nice." 

 

“It’s because the _weather_ is perfect for swimming today,” Atobe says, and ignores Tezuka’s grumpiness in favor of swimming. “You don’t have to be such a grouch, it’s fine to have earthshattering orgasms and go for a swim. Un-pout your face, there’s a good chap.”

 

Tezuka finds some satisfaction in sending a splash at the back of Atobe's head. "I'm not pouting. This is just my face." 

 

“Does your face contain a smile?” Atobe asks, before turning around and spitting a fountain of water at Tezuka’s face.

 

Tezuka answers that with a glower, and wipes water from his eyes. "Definitely not." 

 

“Unfortunate. What would I have to do for one? I’m not averse to using terribly brutal methods.”

 

"Your usual methods for _everything_ are rather brutal," Tezuka points out, floating his way to the side of the pool to linger there, slowly treading water. "…I'll let you take me out to dinner tonight," he eventually relents. That is about as sociable as he can stand to be on a vacation, at any rate, and sparing Atobe the act of dragging him will be a good thing, Tezuka hopes.

 

Atobe breaks into a startled, brilliant grin. “Really? Wonderful!” He kicks off the side of the pool, bringing him to Tezuka’s side in an instant, so he can grab the other boy for a kiss. “The finest restaurant in Tokyo--unless you want to go somewhere else? Kyoto? Beijing? London? My jet is close by, it wouldn’t take more than a couple hours for anywhere in the world…” _As long as you smile._

 

Ah. 

 

Then there's this.

 

Atobe is always so earnest, no matter how _ridiculous_ he can be, and how to respond to that always leaves Tezuka at a loss. It doesn't help that when Atobe kisses him, it still makes him tingle all the way down to his toes, and Tezuka ducks his head a bit, grateful that he can't _really_ see Atobe without his glasses. Maybe this way, Atobe won't attribute the faint flush to his cheeks to himself instead of the sun, or the way he might possibly already be smiling just a little. "…Tokyo is fine. I'm tired of planes, anyway." 

 

“Just don’t get tired of trains,” Atobe agrees effortlessly, and kisses him one more time, firmly. “Then I’ll have to start carrying you on my back.”

 

Tezuka gently bites him. "You'd complain I was too bony to carry, so let's not."  


	2. Chapter 2

 

It’s been two weeks.

 

Yukimura has been slightly….less than pleasant, since he’d found out about Sanada’s rules for being a proper guest. He’s hard on everyone else, knows he is, and it’s _fine_ , because he’s always been even harder on himself. 

 

The current rule for himself, which unfortunately applies to Yukimura, is the rule of being a guest. Since the dorms are closed for summer vacation, Yukimura’s parents have been good enough to extend an invitation for the summer, and Sanada’s been more than happy to sleep in the guest room. He _hadn’t_ thought of the fact that Yukimura would want to engage in...slightly more extracurricular activities. 

 

“I won’t,” he says firmly, for what feels like the hundredth time and is probably only about the eightieth. He straightens his shirt, re-buttoning it after Yukimura’s recent efforts. “I’m a guest in your parents’ home. I won’t defile their trust by dishonoring their son.”

 

Yukimura wants to launch himself off of the walls and then some. 

 

Channeling that into tennis only goes so far, especially when he is in good enough shape now to _lap_ everyone on the team except Sanada when they run around the school grounds during summer practice. There's no satisfaction to it, even when everyone else is collapsed on the ground gasping after the fact. _He_ wants to be collapsed and gasping. His dick tells him that is necessary. 

 

"We're in my house, with the opportunity to enjoy _my_ bed--" Which is huge and comfortable and _very fun_ to roll around in, he might add, "--and you don't want to," Yukimura says for what is _definitely_ the thousandth time, the edge to his voice unyielding. "How is it a dishonor when I _want_ it to happen? It isn't like they care!" Well, to be entirely correct, his father might, but his father is out of the country, so the point is moot. 

 

Sanada folds his arms, scowling under the brim of his hat. “Don’t play dumb with me. Your parents extended me hospitality. You wouldn’t wonder if it were dishonor if you were a girl.”

 

"If I were a girl, I would have already made sure to get knocked up so you'd have to marry me." 

 

Sanada’s bookbag slips off his arm. His eyes go wide, and he shuts the door as fast as he can, the tips of his ears burning. “You shouldn’t _say_ something like that! You’re way too young--I mean, you’re not a girl!”

 

Yukimura stares back at him, folding his arms. "Nice catch there, Genichirou. I never would have guessed."

 

Sanada’s scowl deepens. “You just like to fluster me by saying the most ridiculous things you can think of. We have homework to do, let’s do it together.”

 

"Later. Or you can work on it, I don't care." Yukimura launches himself back into bed, stuffing his face down into a pillow with a huff. "If you won't do it with me, I'll just jerk off. Lock the door, will you?" 

 

Sanada tries not to drop the bookbag, only to realize that he hasn’t picked it up again. His scowl turns into a glare, and he locks the door, pulling out his homework defiantly and arraying it on the floor. “You’re one of the most shameless people I’ve ever met.”

 

Yukimura shrugs, rolling slowly onto his side. "I'm already hard, there's no use in putting it to waste," he says without batting an eye, thumbing open the button of his jeans. "At least let me borrow your hat if you aren't going to be any fun." 

 

“ _Yukimura_!” Sanada hisses, trying as hard as he can to keep his voice low. Scandalized but not quite able to look away, he fumbles with his books, setting them up. “You don’t have to do that every time it gets hard, you know!”

 

Ooh, no 'Seiichi' right now. Sanada really is off-kilter. Yukimura laughs, pressing his cheek down into a pillow instead because _apparently_ , Sanada isn't going to be cute and at least give him his hat to bury his face into. "Mm, I know. And I don't, obviously. I use discretion." He slides a hand up his own stomach, hiking his shirt up. "If you did it every time _you_ got hard, that would be exhausting, now wouldn't it?" 

 

“That would be….” Sanada looks for a word, flushing from his chest to the tips of his ears. “Exhausting, yeah. Possible inducing a medical condition. Oi, are you really going to do that when your parents are home?”

 

"Well, you locked the door, didn't you?" Yukimura's fingers creep up higher, and he lets his breath hitch when he thumbs, then slowly pinches a nipple. Normally, he wouldn't even bother--just thinking about Sanada is _enough_ if he wants to get off, honestly--but if Sanada isn't going to join in, Yukimura plans to make him regret it. "You know, Genichirou," he sighs, flopping over onto his back, letting his legs splay as his other hand slides down to squeeze himself through his jeans, "it wouldn't take _much_ , if you just wanted to touch me a _little_."

 

Sanada’s breath quickens, and he tries in vain to look away. Yukimura’s hardly doing anything he hasn’t seen before, but Sanada feels as if his neck is frozen, staring at Yukimura. “I…” He swallows, hard, and his cock throbs. Sort of against his will, he starts to stand.

 

“Sei-chan?” A woman’s voice comes through the door, and Sanada goes white as a sheet. “Darling, we talked about locking your door. What if you get ill?”

 

Yukimura hisses out a breath between his teeth, irritably smacking his hand down into the bed. " _Mom_ , I'm _fine._ " He crooks a finger at Sanada, looking up at him pleadingly in hopes he won't abandon the idea of actually putting his hands on him. "Seriously, we're trying to do homework." 

 

A lilting laugh comes through the door. “Ohh, homework, is it? You don’t have a _girl_ in there, do you?”

 

“N-no, Ma’am!” Sanada says quickly.

 

“Open the door, you don’t need it shut for homework. Ah, Sei-chan, I have to have your opinion on this new line of skirts. If not for me, next year’s line will have no taste!” [* Author's Note 1]

 

Sanada turns to Yukimura, mouth open, staring.

 

Yukimura's eyes roll to the ceiling, and he forces himself up, refastening his clothing with a huff. "We just wanted to keep Kaede out," he lies through his teeth, turning the lock and yanking the door open with a frown. "Why don't you ask _her_ about your skirts, too?"

 

"Mom says you have better aesthetic taste," Kaede pipes in with all of her ten wise years from their mother's hip, staring around her with wide eyes to fixate firmly upon Sanada. "Hi, Gen-chan." 

 

Sanada rearranges his limbs, making sure he’s not exposing anything _awkward_ , but the arrival of Kaede pretty much puts all the dampers he could need on the situation. He bows, first to Yukimura’s mother, then to Kaede (less deeply). “Ladies, thank you for the honor of your presence. Hi, Kaede-chan.”

 

Yukimura Saki looks between her son and his friend with a little smile. “Well, we can always talk about my skirts later. Homework, you say?”

 

"Yes, _homework_ ," Yukimura firmly repeats, his hand hovering on the door for all the good it does, as Kaede walks right under his arm and is fastened to Sanada's side in an instant. " _Mom_ , this is what I was talking about!"

 

"Nii-chan doesn't like to share you, but I want to play tennis with you, too." Kaede peers up at Sanada, her eyes still as big as saucers. "He says I'm going to be a _monster_ some day--"

 

"M _ooo_ m--" 

 

“You’ll definitely be a monster,” Sanada says gravely, and thinks with a grimace of the last time he’d watched Kaede play. It had been….an experience. Horrifying, to see that determined, serene look and that whipcord power on such a sweet, innocent face. 

 

“Kaede,” Saki says with an apologetic look at her son, “I think I need a new model for the Reinholdt project. Want to be in a magazine in France?”

 

"Ooh! Do I get to wear those pretty floofy dresses again?" Kaede is unfastened from Sanada's side as quickly as she'd attached herself there, bounding out of the room to tug on her mother's arm. "When do I get to _go_ to France? This isn't over!" she suddenly announces, pointing a finger in Sanada's direction. "You'll definitely be my opponent, no mistake!" [* Author's Note 2]

 

"At least say it right," Yukimura growls, and promptly shuts the door in their faces. "Good _bye_ , mother." 

 

Sanada, pale and drawn, lets out a slow breath. “This is your fault,” he mutters, as footsteps fade from the hallway.

 

"If you would actually have sex with me when they're out of the house, I wouldn't propose things when they're _here_ ," Yukimura snidely returns. 

 

“But it’s still their home! They could come back at any time!” Sanada folds his arms. “I still think it would be more polite to simply go to a love hotel.”

 

"You've _seen_ how long my mother's shopping trips take. I seriously doubt we're going to roll around for _four hours_ ," Yukimura crossly shoots back, throwing himself onto the bed in a petulant heap. "I don't want to go to a love hotel when I have a really nice bed right here." 

 

Sanada’s resolve wavers. He _hates_ that. “I don’t think it’s right. Just because you get away with something doesn’t mean it isn’t wrong. Even if…”

 

"She _knows_ , you know," Yukimura quietly interrupts, rolling onto his back with a thump. "About us." 

 

Sanada blinks. He looks from Yukimura to the door, and his ears start to change color. “She….what? How? _What_ does she know about us?”

 

It's hard to get comfortable with so much nervous energy, and Yukimura flips around again, his head towards the foot of the bed as he flops his head onto his arms, peering intently at Sanada. "That we're together. I think Mom's known for awhile, actually, though she kind of surprised me with it, bringing it up like she did…whatever, it's fine. She does that."

 

Sanada’s expression holds, tense and unhappy, for several long moments. “Is she….” He crosses his arms, not wanting to know the answer to his next question. “Can I still stay here? If I promise her I won’t do anything?”

 

Yukimura buries his face down into the bedspread. "Good _grief_ , Sanada. She told me to be safe and gave me a box of condoms, it was awful. Still, I don't think she cares at _all_. Mom likes you, remember?"

 

“Ah.” Sanada _does_ remember, and relaxes a bit. “I suppose.” His stomach still ties itself into a knot, and he flops down next to Yukimura, drawing him suddenly close. “I don’t want _anything_ to take us apart again. That’s why I’m terrified.”

 

"My mom isn't ever going to do that, don't worry." Sanada's _warmth_ is as good as anything, and Yukimura immediately squishes himself up against him as close as possible, his face buried into his neck. "My dad won't either; he's just old-fashioned about it. Don't talk about it, don't tell anyone…as if I want to, anyway. It's no one's business how much I want to be with you."

 

“That’s fine. It’s…” Ah, he’s never quite told Yukimura this. He rests his chin on the top of Yukimura’s head, closing his eyes. “It’s how my father was about it. I forgot. I told them about us, before…before. They didn’t mind too much, I think.”

 

Yukimura's eyes lid, and he idly splays one hand's fingers against Sanada's chest, thumbing the collar of his shirt before tracing slow, aimless patterns down his chest. "That's good. You're braver than me. I wasn't really sure how to bring it up, so I'm glad Mom figured it out." Really, he didn't want _one more thing_ that made him the problem child in their eyes, or _one more thing_ that made them that much more protective. "She really does like you, you know. She knows you take good care of me." 

 

Sanada leans down, brushing a kiss to the top of Yukimura’s head. “I always will. If you’ll _let_ me. Oi, we really should work on homework. Your chemistry make-up test is tomorrow, you _can’t_ fail this one too.”

 

At that, Yukimura punches him in the sternum. "Don't ruin the mood with _chemistry_." Just the thought of it sets his teeth on edge.

 

Sanada grunts. “I’d take it for you if I could.”

 

"Maybe I'll just skip it." He hates the idea of failing anything, but high school chemistry labs are at least a dozen times worse than those in middle school, and just walking into one to take an exam makes him want to claw a hole through the wall to get out. "My grades are good in everything else."

 

“If I do the homework for you,” Sanada offers finally, exasperated, “will you at least try and go to your classes? I know you don’t like it, but we’ll be doing the rankings soon, and anyone below the line won’t be able to play tennis. We need you.”

 

Yukimura draws back enough to give him an annoyed stare. "I've never been even _close_ to the line. Look, I'll just put extra effort into the other ones, and get high scores there and it'll all even out. Especially," he sweetly adds, "if you do my chem homework for me. Then there's nothing to worry about and I don't have to go at all." 

 

Sanada nods. He’d do a hell of a lot more to make sure they get to play tennis together for as long as humanly possible, that’s for sure. “No problem. Just….don’t keep distracting me. You _know_ how difficult it is for me to concentrate when…” He frowns at a strange sound. “Is that your cell phone?”

 

"You're pretty easy to distract, all things considered," Yukimura idly tosses back when he rolls away, and dangles off the side of the bed to make a grab for his phone.

 

**From: King Useful**

**Subject: question**

**What in the world is a yuuta?**

 

"Hm." Not the weirdest text he's ever gotten from Atobe, that much is certain. 

 

Sanada peers over his shoulder, brow furrowing. “What _is_ a yuuta? Ask him what kanji it uses.”

 

 _Context? Kanji?_ Yukimura presses send, and drops his chin into one hand. "Sounds like a name, like Bunta. Maybe it's written just as strangely." 

 

“Maybe he’s trying to think of a better name for his dog.”

 

"God, Beat _is_ an awful name, isn't it? I'm not sure Yuuta is much better, but…"

 

**From: King Useful**

**Subject: you’re no help at all**

**Body: It’s a name. Possibly tennis-adjacent human.**

 

"'Tennis-adjacent human'," Yukimura deadpans, his eyebrows raising. "Yuuta, Yuuta… oh!" he suddenly announces, snapping his fingers. "Doesn't Fuji Shuusuke have a little brother named Yuuta?" 

 

“Mm, yes. I forgot.” Sanada frowns. “I forgot because he’s a loser. What’s the point?”

 

Yukimura half-heartedly smacks his arm. "Be sweet. Not everyone can be as good as we are." 

 

**From: Yukimura Seiichi**

**Subject: don't be a little shit**

**Body: Fuji Shuusuke has a little brother name Yuuta. Sanada says you should use the name for your dog.**

 

**From: King Useful**

**Subject: Is it so easy to offend a demigod?**

**Body: Well that makes sense. Alternate note: I have a Grand Scheme in mind. Pls take part. Free tomorrow?**

 

"I didn't sign up for this," Yukimura says, sighing at his phone. Then again, he _is_ sort of bored out of his mind, so Grand Schemes might be very entertaining. 

 

**From: Yukimura Seiichi**

**Subject: kings subjugate themselves to gods too you know**

**Body: is this an underhanded request for a double date or something more interesting because I guarantee Sanada's answer is no**

 

"If it cuts the subject off, I'm going to be mad," he grumbles.

 

“Remind him that Kings are subject to the whims of Emperors as well.”

 

**From: King Useful**

**Subject: Render unto Caesar etc**

**Body: God no. I think Kunimitsu would explode and I quite like him in one piece. Meet at my villa, I’ll have a car pick you up. Bring your manslave or not.**

 

Yukimura tries very hard not to giggle. He fails miserably. "Manslave, do you want to go?" he mildly asks, nudging Sanada with his shoulder. "Friendly reminder that you'll be left here all alone with my mom and _Kaede_ if you don't."

 

**From: Yukimura Seiichi**

**Subject: forgiven because 'manslave'**

**Body: After 11. Practice and a thing first, then I'm free.**

 

He might as well _attempt_ his chemistry test. Then maybe Sanada will nag him less.

 

“I, ah, think I have to take control of the team.” Sanada nods firmly. “Someone has to lead it in your absence. And then I should go practice kendo. Very important.”

 

"Uh huh. Should I be concerned that you seem to find my sister more vexing than being called 'manslave'?" 

 

“I don’t get offended at the howling of the wind,” Sanada growls. “Your sister really exists. That makes her the bigger threat.”

 

"She wants to be your _opponent_ , Gen-chan," Yukimura teases, dropping his phone to roll back closer to Sanada. "You should be worried. She never has the yips."

 

“I don’t need them to beat anyone,” Sanada says, rolling on top of Yukimura to pin the other boy down to the bed--out of principle, not any _lewd_ way. “Just like you said--I just play tennis.”

 

Yukimura hums underneath his breath in approval, flopping an arm around Sanada's waist to gently scrape his nails along his lower back when his shirt rides up. "Crush her a few times, then. She'd love it. My sister is _weird_." 

 

Sanada sucks in a breath. “I...wouldn’t feel right, playing all-out against a little girl.” His eyes flutter shut at the scrape of Yukimura’s nails--ah, well, he hadn’t thought he’d last this long, anyway.

 

"Well, just rally with her, then. I do it all the time." Yukimura lets his head tip back over the edge of the bed as he sneaks his hand down and gives Sanada's ass a teasing pinch. "Or don't. I'm more interesting than my sister, anyway."

 

“Mm, and much ruder,” Sanada grumbles, trying not to let any other, more embarrassing noises out. Sort of impossible, when Yukimura is bent on touching him like that, and his face flames at the thought, and how much he _wants_.

 

Yukimura wriggles and slides a thigh up between Sanada's legs at that, his hand slipping into the back pocket of Sanada's slacks at the same time. "You don't exactly seem to _mind_ …" 

 

Mentally, Sanada has already given up. It’s for the best, when there’s something Yukimura _wants_. He lets his thighs part, falling to either side of Yukimura’s thigh, and lets out a low, slow groan. “Hard to mind...when you feel like that…” Hard to think of anything, really, except Yukimura inside of him. Hard to think.

 

Just _hard_.

 

He was _certain_ Sanada wouldn't give up so easily this time. Two weeks of forced abstinence have clearly clouded his own judgement, though Yukimura doesn't mind at all in this case. "Want to be inside you so badly right now," he murmurs, sliding his thigh up and sucking in a sharp breath at how _hard_ Sanada is against him. Yukimura's fingers knead into the curve of Sanada's ass when he grabs, pulling him down harder. "You're a _way_ worse tease than me and you don't even try." 

 

Sanada lets out a strangled noise, head thunking down to let his forehead rest against Yukimura’s shoulder. He ruts helplessly down, breathing hitching. “After,” he breathes, hands clutching Yukimura’s clothes, his sides, his arms, “punish me for disobeying my own standards, for--ahh--shaming your house.”

 

Yukimura groans, and in one, solid shove, rolls them over, his mouth on the side of Sanada's neck as he grabs and kneads between Sanada's legs. "I'll fuck you right now if you think you can keep quiet," he breathes, sucking the lobe of Sanada's ear into his mouth and biting down afterwards. " _You're_ the one with the voice that carries. I'll punish you for that, too." Ah. Crap, that shouldn't go straight to his own cock like it does. Yukimura swallows, and bites again at Sanada's neck, sucking until he _knows_ he'll leave a mark. 

 

Sanada clenches his teeth together, squeezes his eyes shut, and nods somewhat frantically. “I’ll--try,” he manages, trying not to just rut up into Yukimura’s hand, failing miserably. God, he’s never as hard as he is when Yukimura’s touching him like this. “Turn me over,” he suggests, and just the idea makes his eyes cross. “Keep me quiet with the pillow.” _I need it._

 

That'll work, and it's even better when Sanada _asks_ for it. Yukimura shifts off of him, just long enough to roll him over, face down into a pillow. He yanks at the fastenings of his jeans while he leans over to paw through his nightstand, a condom soon between his teeth and his hands busy with Sanada's slacks to pull them down. It's forever a game of _are we actually going to fuck before we both end up coming_ \--not that Yukimura _minds_ either way, but after two weeks, god, he wants it done _right_. 

 

"You'll be good, won't you?" he breathes into Sanada's ear, the condom fumbled on, lube-slick fingers dragging over Sanada's hole, and he wriggles two inside, spreading them wide. "I _mean it_ about you being quiet." 

 

Sanada lurches forward, setting his teeth to the edge of a pillow. Damn, he’s _already_ concerned that he won’t be able to make this last nearly as much as they both want it to. “A second,” he asks, shuddering with his face pressed against the pillow. “Just...give me a second, or…”

 

Yukimura knows, or should know, what he’s going to say.

 

_If you don’t give me a second before giving me more, I’ll be done before you even get inside me._

 

Not that the thought of Yukimura inside him is going to help in any way with how he tries to calm himself. Not at _all_.

 

"Nope." Yukimura lurches up, biting at the back of Sanada's neck, sucking hard as his eyes flutter with the first aching slide of his cock against Sanada's ass as he pulls his hand away. "Don't care if you go ahead and come," he murmurs, fingers wrapping around his own cock with the head of it rubbing against Sanada's hole. "I'll just…ahh--just punish you for that, too," he pants out, clawing and grabbing at Sanada's hips when he sinks in that first inch, everything slick and hot and his eyes roll back at how _tight_ it is. 

 

Well, shit.

 

Somehow, even the idea of punishment sounds attractive when Yukimura says it in that lilting little voice of his, and Sanada really can’t help himself. Feeling the thick, hot, pulsing length of him shoving inside is the last straw, and Sanada shoves his own face down into the pillow, trembling and writhing back on Yukimura’s cock, hips twitching as he spends himself on the sheets.

 

He hadn’t _meant_ to, and now he feels drained, shaking, still groaning into the pillow and almost pleading when his vision returns. He hears himself, begging for more, and hopes the pillow does a good enough job that Yukimura can’t hear him, not clearly, at least.

 

" _Hush_ , Genichirou," Yukimura pants out into his ear, grabbing a handful of Sanadas hair and shoving his face down harder as he lurches forward, sinking in until their hips slap together and he bites down around his own groan. "Wanted this _forever_ , just _let me_ \--"

 

There's definitely a thrill in knowing how quickly he made Sanada come, and he can still _feel_ those shocks and tremors going through Sanada's body when he shoves in deep. Yukimura bites into his own lower lip for a moment, stifling a broken, mewling sound when he scoots his knees up in closer, grabs at Sanada's hips and pulls him back onto his cock when he rolls his hips in deep, biting and sucking and kissing all over his shoulders and neck and wherever else his mouth can reach. 

 

So long _without_ makes it faster than he'd like, but beggars can't be choosers and god, it feels so good that he doesn't _care_. Yukimura bites into the curve of Sanada's shoulder when he comes, shoving in as deep as he can, his breath a ragged, unsteady thing when everything blurs around the edges and _yes goddammit we finally had sex in my bed and it was good_. 

 

Sanada can’t breathe.

 

He’s not sure he’s ever cared about anything less.

 

He pants, slowly unclenching his jaw from the pillow, and feels his jaw start to loosen up. “Ah,” he manages, letting his head flop to one side, the better to see Yukimura. “I apologize for being a terrible guest. If I may say so….it was worth it.”

 

In the sense that he’ll probably never breathe or walk again.

 

Yukimura flops forward bonelessly, splaying himself over Sanada's back when the urge to move is about as far as anything from his mind right then. "You're forgiven, punishment later," he breezily replies as he stuffs his face down into Sanada's hair. "You smell good after sex." 

 

Sanada nods dumbly. “Whatever you say.” He’s still twitching, still _sore_ , and all he can do is flop down and agree. “You always smell perfect.”

 

"Mm? Even if I go and roll in the dirt?" Slowly, Yukimura pulls out, listing to the side and grimacing as he rolls the condom off and tosses it into the wastebasket. "We're gonna have to wash the bedspread," he cheerfully notes. "Finally broke it in, aren't you glad?" 

 

Sanada collapses. “Thrilled.”

 

~~

 

He should have skipped the test.

 

The day would have been a good one if he had. The half of practice that he was around for went well, especially when graced with the opportunity to make Sanada run laps for supposedly no reason. "Sadist," Niou whispers in his ear, and Yukimura smiles before sending him after Sanada for a nice long romp around the grounds. 

 

But then there's chemistry, and Yukimura finds himself looking for a dagger. 

 

There are few things he won't talk about with Sanada, even fewer that he won't _admit_ to Sanada, but this is one of them. Sanada probably knows, anyway. It's the smell of chemicals that makes it nearly impossible to even sit the test, let alone _focus_ on it, and Yukimura knows before he even walks out that he's going to fail the damn thing (again). 

 

Ah, he really hates doing _poorly_. At least with Sanada doing his homework, he should _pass_. 

 

Yukimura shoves the general anxiety and _twitchiness_ away by the time they return home, and he collapses partially over the kitchen counter after a shower, gnawing slowly on a carrot. 

 

"Niiiii-chan, I want to play tennis with you and Gen-chan today!"

 

"Then you should've woken up earlier. We're off on a Grand Scheme today." Because Sanada is _definitely_ coming. 

 

"I want to go on a Grand Scheme! Mom, tell him I want to go!"

 

" _Mom_ , take her with you today or something--"

 

"Don't wanna, I want to play tennis!"

 

"We aren't going to play tennis, though."

 

Kaede scowls. "You do every other time!"

 

Yukimura shrugs and bites into another carrot. "Sanada, tell her we aren't playing tennis," he calls into the other room.

 

"Nii-chan is _weird_. You always call him _Genichirou_ when your door is shuuuuut--"

 

Yukimura gives his mother the most long-suffering stare that he can manage right then. 

 

“Kaede-chan can’t come with me today, I’m off to spend time with Bianca,” Saki says airily, fixing one of her earrings. “Kaede-chan, run up to your room, Mitsuni’s father is coming to pick you up in half an hour. Sei-chan, can we talk for a moment?”

 

Kaede sticks out her tongue at her brother, huffing as she stomps herself away. 

 

"Mom, can't you call me Seiichi? I'm not a girl." While he can normally tolerate it, it's especially jarring hearing it next to _Kaede-chan_ , and Yukimura has had enough of setting his teeth on edge for the day. 

 

Saki ignores that, leaning down to press a lipstick kiss to his cheek. “Don’t be so finicky, you’re still my little boy. Ah, I just wanted to let you borrow this, if you want,” she says, pulling out a tube of concealer. “There’s a spoon in the freezer. Take it out, press, twist, then put the concealer on. Should take care of any bruises in a day or so.” 

 

She draws back, folding her arms as far as they’ll go in the exquisite designer jacket. “Do you need more privacy? Is that why you’re acting out by leaving all those marks on him? I can ask Mitsuni’s parents to take Kaede for a week while you two have exams. I know you’re getting older, things can change.”

 

Yukimura makes a strangled noise, and settles for viciously scrubbing lipstick off of his cheek in lieu of immediately replying. "I'm not _acting out_ ," he moodily retorts, and slowly gnaws on another carrot, turning the concealer around in his hand. Maybe he _did_ get a little carried away last night. Whoops. "But more privacy wouldn't hurt. Kaede is so clingy, it's annoying, and it makes Sanada nervous…"

 

“She just loves her big brother,” Saki says, tugging on a strand of her son’s hair, getting slightly distracted by it. “Ah, it’s not _nearly_ long enough, why do you keep lopping it off? I’ll never understand that, I’d _kill_ for hair like yours.”

 

"It gets in the way when I play tennis," Yukimura complains, half-heartedly tilting his head away. "I'm getting it cut this week, it's already bad enough!" 

 

Saki makes a distressed noise in her throat, plucking at another strand of hair. “But it’s _lovely_ , Sei-chan--I’ll give you the keys to the guest house in the backyard for as long as you have it long, how’s that?”

 

Ugh. That's a hard bargain. The pros and cons are both very, very strong. "Come _on_ , Mom. I look like a girl when it's long." 

 

“You look _lovely_ , darling. Come on, no one would think you’re a girl, not with that tennis uniform you’re always wearing. Those cheekbones are to die for, it’s a crime to cut off your hair so it doesn’t frame them at all.” She sighs, and pulls out a small silver key. “Up to you,” she offers, and sets it on the table. Then she bends and gives him a kiss on top of his head, before grabbing her purse and strolling out. “Be safe, there are more condoms in the bathroom.”

 

It's against his nature to think his mother is the _worst_ , especially when she's honestly being really nice and _helpful_ , but she's still the worst in about a dozen ways. Yukimura sighs at the key before eventually pocketing it, and slides off of the stool to find that damned spoon…and maybe a hair tie after that.  "Genichirouuu, come out of hiding," he sing-songs. "I need to fix your neck!" 

 

Sanada hesitantly emerges from an empty guest room, flexing his knees to rid them of the stiffness that always comes after a long meditation in seiza. “What do you mean, fix it?” he asks warily. “You already messed it up, they won’t go away for a week at least.”

 

Without bothering to warn him, Yukimura presses the ice-cold spoon to one of the hickeys in question. "Hold still," he cheerfully orders, grabbing Sanada's arm so he can't get away. "Mom also gave me some concealer, so we'll make this work one way or another!" 

 

Sanada’s eyes go wide, and only long training keeps him from yanking away on principle. Also, it’s good training for being more stoic. He grunts, eyeing the concealer with more trepidation than the frozen metal pressed against his neck. “I don’t want to wear _makeup_.”

 

"Do you want to wear a turtleneck in this heat instead?" Yukimura sniffs, giving the spoon a firm press and twist before moving onto another mark. "Or worse, pop your collar like Yagyuu?" 

 

“As if I care about fashion,” Sanada growls. “I’m not wearing makeup--ahhh, that’s _cold_! How does that even work?”

 

"I don't _know_ , just hold still," Yukimura hisses back, yanking Sanada closer again when he tries to squirm away. "If you're going to whine about this, just let me use the concealer! Think of it like stage makeup!" 

 

Kaede peeks up over the kitchen counter at them. "I want to go and see Gen-chan act." 

 

"Kaede, go away. No, wait, come back, let me borrow a hair tie." 

 

"Nii-chan's gonna look like a giiiiirl."

 

Yukimura twitches and shoves the spoon against another hickey. 

 

Sanada can feel his neck, ears, and cheeks turning slowly pink, and he can’t meet Kaede’s eyes. “Next time your brother directs a play, I’ll make sure you come see me,” he offers, “if you get your brother a tie and go get ready for your babysitter.”

 

Kaede tilts her head, considering, before it's obvious she decides this is an exchange in her favor and bounds off again. 

 

"Good job," Yukimura praises, rocking back onto his heels with a beaming smile. "By the way, my mom gave me the key to the guest house in the back."

 

“Children aren’t hard. I thought you’d be better at dealing with them by now, after Akaya.” Sanada is only half kidding. Maybe only a quarter. Maybe a tenth.

 

“What’s the guest house? I’ve never seen it.”

 

"You don't deal with my little sister like you deal with Akaya," Yukimura points out, and he calmly shoves Sanada back against the countertop while opening the tube of concealer. "I'll show it to you when we get back from our Grand Scheme with Atobe," he says, dabbing at one of the hickeys. "She said I can have the key as long as I don't cut my hair, so please appreciate my sacrifice." 

 

“Your hair looks good short and long,” Sanada says, slightly baffled by the emotional attachment obviously involved. He adjusts his collar, looking in the mirror and grimacing. “I guess you can use that stuff, if there’s no other way. Are we taking a taxi?”

 

"Do you know how many times I get mistaken for a woman when my hair is long?" And here he thought Sanada would understand at least that much. "Atobe said he was going to send a car…there, look, you're as good as new. I'll let you bite me later, if you want to take revenge." 

 

"Here, Nii-chan! It's not even pink, even though Mom says that looks good with your complexion." 

 

"Thanks," Yukimura dryly replies, taking the tie that's thrust up to him. 

 

Sanada privately can’t imagine anyone looking at Yukimura and thinking him a woman. Maybe he’s biased, after being used to thinking of Yukimura as a man for so many years. Anyone who’s heard him _talk_ would certainly not make that mistake.

 

“I’ll get the bags,” he offers, hefting both tennis bags onto one arm--it’s hard to tell when a simple conversation with Atobe will turn into an impromptu match, and he _hates_ using Atobe’s rackets. 

 

A ring of the doorbell sounds, and a moment later, Sanada calls, “Seiichi, the car is here.”

 

"Be good for Mitsuni," Yukimura tells Kaede before she can whine about _but you said you weren't going to play tennis_ , and musses her hair on the way out the door.

 

There's something to be said about being friends with Atobe. There are perks in _spades_ , and even if Sanada complains about having to endure his presence, Yukimura thinks he's hilarious and that makes it well worth his while. "I bet _Tezuka_ is going to be here," he teases Sanada when they finally arrive at one of the Atobe family's villas. "Aren't you excited?" 

 

“As long as he keeps his mouth shut,” Sanada says under his breath, “he can be anywhere he wants.”

 

Atobe himself is out front, striking a stunning pose in the entryway. “Ahh, my friends! You’ve finally decided to grace yourselves with the glory of my home. Welcome, and prepare to be dazzled.”

 

“You’re on your own, Seiichi.”

 

"Surrendering after two seconds? That's a piss poor performance, Genichirou," Yukimura says, and sticks a hand into a back pocket of his slacks to ease him forward. "Hello, Atobe. Is this still about Yuutas, or just Grand Schemes in general?" 

 

“Neither,” Atobe says cheerfully, and with a snap of his fingers, a bellman comes to take the bags (which Sanada relinquishes only under protest). “A Great Scheme in specific, that I have decided will not involve a single Yuuta. Please, come in for refreshments first. We’re enjoying a mid-afternoon occasion by one of the pools.”

 

Yukimura gives Sanada a sweet smile that brims full with _see, won't this be relaxing_ before _firmly_ coaxing him along. "Are we the only ones invited for this Grand Scheme? We're honored. Ah, and Tezuka, of course, nice to see you." 

 

"Same," is the 'greeting' muffled behind a book from Tezuka's customary curled-up spot beneath an umbrella at the poolside. Yukimura feels like he should applaud Atobe on making him more sociable already. 

 

“Not remotely the only ones, though certainly the first,” Atobe declares, and tosses his jersey to let it land on one of the poolside chairs, stripping instantly down to his swim trunks. “The others included depend on how quickly my Great Scheme comes to fruition. Tell me, what do you know of matchmaking?”

 

Sanada sits under one of the umbrellas and starts glaring at everyone in turn. This is _not_ the place he wants to be.

 

Tezuka curls up into an even smaller ball. 

 

Yukimura blinks. "Matchmaking?" He kicks off his shoes, and drops himself next to the pool, letting his feet dangle into the water. "Depends with who, I guess? Who are you trying to hook up?" 

 

“I have recently become aware that in my conquest of dear Kunimitsu, I may have inadvertently stepped on some toes,” Atobe says, as chagrined as it’s possible for Atobe to be. “Tell me, is there anyone of your acquaintance you can think of with a preference for men, a currently single status, and a strong constitution?”

 

"Um." Well. This turned rather odd rather quickly. Yukimura's head tilts to the side. 

 

Tezuka aims his book at Atobe's head, and hits his target with startlingly accuracy. It isn't a rare book today, at least, and he has others at his disposal. "I am not a _conquest_. I told you to drop this ridiculous plan."

 

"Well, Niou is two out of three…" Yukimura muses out loud.

 

Atobe retaliates by grabbing Tezuka by the waist and jumping into the pool with him, ducking away from any flailing limbs and kicking to the surface. He extricates himself, shaking out his hair, and continues the conversation as if they hadn’t been interrupted. “Which two? Consider me willing to compromise somewhat.”

 

Sanada snatches up the abandoned book, looks at the first page, snorts, and tosses it to the side. Drivel.

 

"The single part, I'm afraid," Yukimura says with an apologetic shrug. "Though sometimes he's a little…" 

 

Tezuka comes up gasping, glaring, and grumpily paddling his way to the edge of the pool. "I would greatly appreciate it if you didn't _encourage_ this idea of his." 

 

"So who is it?" Yukimura presses again as if he hadn't heard Tezuka at all. 

 

“Fuji Shuusuke,” Atobe announces, snatching Tezuka’s glasses from his face and setting them on a table nearby. “Doubtless you’ve noticed his slightly unbalanced and ultimately tragic love.”

 

Yukimura chokes on a laugh. "Oh, god. Niou _would_ get a kick out of that. Ah, but, I don't think that would _really_ work, and I'm not so certain it's a good idea for Fuji Shuusuke to be… _involved_ with anyone at all. He's…hmm." 

 

“That’s hardly your call to make,” Atobe says, folding his arms over his dripping, gorgeous chest. “Everyone deserves happiness, no matter how unstable. And surely a genius can be forgiven a little eccentricity, hmm? Personally, in my flawless opinion, I’ve never thought that those currently in a relationship should tell others they shouldn’t be. For example, I would never tell a peas--ah, a commoner that money won’t make them happy. Ironic, wouldn’t it be?”

 

"…So why don't you speak to him directly and offer your _services_ to hook him up with someone that way?" Yukimura deadpans, his eyebrows arching sky-high. "It seems a little silly to go behind his back about it, when it sounds like to me he still has a thing for Tezuka--"

 

"He never had a thing for me."

 

"Barring that, find him another glasses-wearing Yamato Nadeshiko and call it a day. Also, be a little freaked out that you share preferences with _Fuji Shuusuke_."

 

Tezuka frowns, hauls himself entirely out of the pool, and goes to hide underneath an umbrella again. 

 

Atobe sighs, more grumpy than he ever allows himself to show. “I’d have thought that you, of all people, might share a gift for the _dramatic_ ,” he laments. “Ah, well. On to Fudoumine, I suppose.”

 

Yukimura rolls his eyes. "Are you seriously just going to go around to every tennis club in the Kantou region? Last I saw, Fuji wasn't even _playing_ any more." 

 

Atobe shoots Tezuka a withering glare. “Why wasn’t I informed? Obviously, the man is _heartbroken_. This makes my Grand Scheme all the more important!”

 

"I've been in _Germany_ and a dozen other countries over the past year. How was I supposed to know that he quit tennis if he didn't tell me?" 

 

"Well, he might not have," Yukimura mildly puts in. "He went to the same high school as Seigaku's Golden Pair, but wasn't on their tennis team when they played at the Kantou. Maybe he just didn't make the regulars." Highly unlikely that, but he doesn't want to _assume_. 

 

Atobe stares at Tezuka, more injured than ever. “Obviously, his spirit is broken! What kind of a friend allows that to happen? This is more dire a situation than I thought.”

 

“Does that mean we have to stay for longer?” Sanada asks, plaintively.

 

"Oh, just swim laps, you grouch," Yukimura sniffs at him. 

 

Tezuka opens his mouth, then shuts it again, entirely at a loss. "Fuji has never been terribly _dedicated_ to tennis," he rather desperately tries. "He could have easily just gotten bored with it." 

 

“Because his inspiration was nowhere to be found!” Atobe declares, then repeats himself as Sanada’s splash rudely drowns out his words. “Clearly, Kunimitsu, you have underestimated your presence in the poor man’s life. Why, how sure are you that he isn’t committing suicide _right now?_ ”

 

"How could I have possibly inspired him either way? I was in Germany!" God, he hopes Fuji isn't committing suicide _right then_. 

 

"Strength training time!" Yukimura cheerfully announces, stripping off his shirt and diving in when Sanada swims past him, latching onto his neck in short order. "Now continue your laps without any mistakes!"

 

"Fuji can take care of himself," Tezuka firmly insists over their splashing. "Even if he is a little odd, that doesn't mean he is going to do something so _rash_." 

 

“As rash as quitting a team that gave him purpose and light for several years?” Atobe demands, turning to face Tezuka. “Even Fuji wouldn’t do something like that without a reason.”

 

In the pool, Sanada switches to crawl stroke, powerful arms cutting through the water and ignoring the extra weight and resistance. If anything, he speeds up, as if swimming faster will keep him from getting an embarrassing erection when Yukimura is wet and clinging to him.

 

"Fuji does a lot of things without reason." Or so Tezuka thought. Atobe is making him doubt things and that's never enjoyable. "I wouldn't put it past him to just quit out of the blue if something else caught his eye." 

 

“No one does anything without _reason_ ,” Atobe says dismissively. “All that means is that you never asked or cared what the reason was. Are you all right with that?”

 

"It isn't that I didn't care. He just never told me or brought it up. I can't see how I'm to blame in that. If Fuji wanted to talk about something, he was never _shy_ about it--"

 

"Oh, Keikei, darling, I didn't realize you were having your friends out here today!"

 

Tezuka swallows and firmly slinks back underneath the umbrella another few inches when none other than Atobe Bianca (or did she prefer Bianca Atobe--Tezuka doesn't want to remember), Atobe's very own mother, flounces her way out to the poolside, the fine material of her robe slinking down her shoulders. 

 

"I hope I won't be too much of a bother," she sweetly continues in English. "You all just carry on." 

 

Atobe’s smile freezes on his face, eyes going wide as his mother starts sunbathing without even a word of apology. “Mother,” he says in English, through his teeth, “we have six houses in Tokyo alone, and _all_ of them have pools. Are you _quite certain_ you don’t want to sunbathe somewhere that isn’t in front of my friends?”

 

“Everyone,” he says, switching effortlessly to Japanese, “this is my mother, Atobe Bianca. And I’m sorry in advance.”

 

Bianca shrugs off her robe without care, leaving it on the ground to be scooped up by a servant as she gracefully collapses back into one of the long chairs, entirely naked. "The angle of the sun here is absolutely my _favorite_ , Keikei! You can't fault me on that! I also have an appointment with sweetest Yukarina today, so it can't be helped."

 

Yukimura drifts off of Sanada's back, treading water near Atobe and directing a smirk right up to him. "It's really no problem, _Keikei_." 

 

“You don’t know that’s what she said,” Atobe says, still through clenched teeth. “That’s….that’s an English word. Definitely an English word. It means, ah, that she’s, um, sorry for her nudity. Not that any member of the Atobe family is less than stunningly gorgeous in any level of clothing, but—”

 

Sanada is fairly sure that he’s going to sink to the bottom of the pool and drown, if he has anything to say about it.

 

Tezuka covers his face entirely with a book. 

 

"Don't be shy about it, _Keikei_ ," Yukimura hums as he hauls himself up and out of the pool. "My mom has conversations with her foreign clients all the time, so don't try to hide it. I'll make sure to change your name in my phone; I've been looking for a better form of address for you." 

 

“Bianca, darling, where are you?” A female voice from inside the house covers Atobe’s attempt to look for an exit, and a woman in strikingly fashion-forward clothes comes out, calling in passable English. “The doorman said you are bathing in sun, is that right?”

 

“Ah, this is my mother’s friend,” Atobe says, feeling slightly dismal. “Yukarina Seki, I think.”

 

Yukimura has to remind himself not to _gawk_ , which doesn't work so well when he nearly topples back into the pool as he turns to stare, wide-eyed. " _Mom?_ " 

 

"There's something to be said about karma," Tezuka mutters underneath his breath. 

 

Seki breaks into a brilliant smile, waving from under her broad-brimmed hat. “Sei-chan, darling! I had no idea you’d be here today! Ah, you two know each other? Remember, I always wanted you to meet Bianca’s son, the one who plays tennis like you?”

 

Atobe isn’t sure whether to laugh at _Sei-chan_ or cry in general.

 

Yukimura makes a valiant attempt at not whimpering. "M…mm. We've known each other for…awhile."

 

"Oh, what a small world!" Bianca brightly announces, climbing to her feet with a snap of her fingers. The servant comes over again, setting her robe onto her shoulders. "Ah, how does it go again--Yukarina, is that son--hmm, no, why is Japanese such an _odd_ language, it's just not meant for me. Never mind that, Yukarina, you look _lovely_ today--"

 

"What do you say to going _out_ somewhere, Keikei?" Yukimura deadpans to Atobe.

 

“Sounds like an excellent plan, Sei-chan,” Atobe says with a brilliant, if certainly fake smile. “Kunimitsu, retreat bravely with us.”

 

“You two are leaving so soon?” Seki asks, and pulls her son to the side long enough to whisper, “Reapply, he went in the pool.”

 

"Oh my god, _Mom_ \--"

 

Tezuka nods, climbing to his feet with his armful of books and brushing past Atobe as he makes for the door hastily. "Nice job letting your guard down, _Keikei_." 

 

Sanada follows quickly, pretending less English knowledge than he has when Bianca Atobe wonders aloud how come her son had invited such a _lovely_ man over, and how old was he, anyway?

 

Atobe at least waits until they’re inside the house before dealing a swat to Tezuka’s ass, more grumpy than usual. “Apologies, friends,” he says, leading the way to one of the many towncars. “She wasn’t supposed to _be_ here today.”

 

"How could our mothers be friends without us even _knowing?_ " Yukimura exasperatedly chimes in, briefly, amusedly distracted by how Tezuka yelps and scurries, putting as much distance between himself and Atobe as he can in an instant. "Hey, Sanada, come here, I've gotta fix your neck again." 

 

“How should I know?” Atobe demands. “My mother always talked about her friend Yukarina! How could that be you? Admittedly, she doesn’t speak Japanese…ah, _wow_ , those are quite impressive.”

 

Sanada clamps a hand to his neck, mortified. “You didn’t have to bring it up, Yukimura!”

 

"Fine, walk around with them like that, then," Yukimura sniffs, folding his arms. "Come to think of it, my mom always mentioned one of her favorite foreign clients was named Bianca…ugh, this is just weird." 

 

Annoyed, Sanada pulls down his collar, walking slowly next to Yukimura and extending his neck. 

 

“It’s fine,” Atobe says brightly, holding the door of a long car open for them. “We just don’t need to ever speak or think of this ever again, and everything will be fine.”

 

 _That's what I thought_ is the look Yukimura settles upon Sanada, and after sliding into the car next to him, immediately begins doctoring his neck up once more. Tezuka opts for a seat opposite them, undoubtedly still frowning about unfinished arguments (and unfinished reading). 

 

It isn't until much later that evening at a villa clear on the other side of Tokyo (the Atobe family is ridiculous, really) that Yukimura plops himself down next to Atobe alone. Well, relatively alone. Sanada has hidden himself in some corner to do his evening meditations (creature of habit and routine that he is) and Tezuka, Yukimura is pretty sure, is dozing on the other side of the villa with his book over his face. "So. Let's go play tennis." _And you can better enlighten me about the argument you've been having with Tezuka all damn day._

 

Atobe sighs, somewhat grateful. “My gracious self will certainly oblige.” He picks up a racket from the corner of the personal tennis court, knowing before he lifts it that it’s his personal favorite, even his favorite color. “Smooth, or rough?”

 

"Smooth." Yukimura shoves his own racket underneath his arm as he tugs the veritable mess of his hair back into a short ponytail. It barely helps, and he gives it up with a sigh, shooting the hair tie away like a rubber band. "Tezuka's kind of dense, isn't he?" he suddenly, bluntly brings up. "Is that really his thing, or is he just stubborn?" 

 

“Rough. You go ahead and serve, I’ll warm up running after it.” Atobe tosses Yukimura a ball, and grins. “He’s one of the smartest men you’ll ever meet, as long as you only want to talk about books and mathematics. He’s not very good at people, and he refuses to learn.”

 

"You didn't get him young enough," Yukimura tosses back teasingly, and absently scuffs his toe against the court before tossing the ball up and slicing it straight into the left corner. There's no need for anything particularly aggressive when they aren't even warmed up and more interested in chattering away, besides. "Sanada used to be like that, but with calligraphy and kendo. He still has tendencies." 

 

“I do what I can. Sometimes they’re just obstinate, yeah?” Atobe asks, leaping out to catch the slice and send it back in a lob. He’s rather curious to see what Yukimura will even _do_ with a lob, come to think of it. “Like a horse that won’t take bridle well. Hard mouth.” He grins. “So to speak.”

 

Yukimura laughs so hard that he trips. Ah, well. So much for the infallible Demigod. "So to speak," he echoes knowingly. Just to be rude, he leans back over the baseline and swats the lob back with one of his own.  "He _has_ to know about Fuji to some degree. Otherwise, he would not be so intent to argue with you and prove that you're wrong." 

 

“You’d think,” Atobe says, a little exasperation in his tone. “He’s a brat, that’s for sure. What bothers me isn’t whether he knows about Fuji or not,” he adds, sending the ball to tap the line on the corner. “It’s that he doesn’t _care_. He doesn’t want to hear anything about it, and I—look, you’re a captain. Wouldn’t you care if one of your teammates, past or present, was heartbroken? Whether it was your fault or not?”

 

"Of _course_ ," Yukimura returns on a huff, and in the mood to watch someone run, sends the ball right back to the opposite corner. "But I'm not sure that's the problem. Seems to me like he cares, but doesn't know how to act on it, and so avoidance is the logical reaction. That seems to be the way he deals with most things, if one even looks at his _tournament_ records."

 

Atobe snorts, diving after the ball and managing to return it on a backhand, just to show that he can get that far, that fast. It gives him less control over where the ball goes, but maybe that’s for the best...somehow. It’s fine. “But wouldn’t you want help, then? If you were him? And there were someone _offering_ to help? Ah, I just hate that he can throw people aside so easily!”

 

Which is the real problem, when he gets down to it, even if he doesn’t want to let Tezuka know about it. Somehow, it’s easier to tell Yukimura, strange as that is.

 

Yukimura lunges to the net--and delicately taps the ball over, grinning over the low bounce and slow roll to Atobe's feet before trotting away back to the baseline. "Yes, _but--_ the more you poke him about it, the more stubborn he is going to be," he points out. "Also, he probably sees you as sticking your nose where it just doesn't belong. Sanada's the same way. If it doesn't involve them directly, then it isn't their business…or something along those lines. You know?"

 

“Tres Japanese,” Atobe grumbles, picking up the ball and tossing it back. “Your serve. Look, I know it’s none of my business, but that’s _why_ it’s so important. If people don’t care when it’s none of their business, then who will? Besides, poking Tezuka is literally the only way to get him to do anything. _Anything_ , bar none.”

 

"You're preaching to the choir," Yukimura sighs at him, and smacks an underhanded serve straight down the court. "Tezuka will probably come around now that you've poked him this much. In the meantime, you could always just check up on the guy via the people that actually still talk to him. Like I said, pretty sure Fuji goes to school with the Golden Pair." 

 

Atobe whacks the ball forehanded, pitching it in a ridiculously high arc to bounce somewhere around Yukimura’s foot. “I’ll call them in the morning,” he agrees. “I just keep hoping that the next layer I peel off of him is going to have something different underneath, you know?”

 

"Like I said, you didn't get him young enough!" Ah, he can't _help it_. Yukimura takes a full step back, and the resultant slice of the ball ghosts past Atobe and slams neatly into the baseline. "Bring it up in a different way," Yukimura suggests as he rocks back onto his heels. "No mentions of Fuji having a crush on him or whatever. That _definitely_ makes him shut down, maybe even on purpose now. And at the risk of stroking your already ridiculous ego, remember that you're sort of a gem, when it comes to empathy towards humanity. Most people don't even know where to begin." 

 

“I’m _not_ ,” Atobe protests. “I just care about my friends, that’s not so strange. Is it?” God, he hopes for the sake of the world that it isn’t. “It isn’t as if I can make him younger now, anyway. I just don’t _understand_ , I told him that his friend is miserable and he just _denies_ it, he didn’t even think to call or text to find out! Ah, sometimes he’s sort of an alien.” Atobe picks up the ball on a bounce, tossing it back. They’re not really _playing_ now, and he’s a bit distracted besides.

 

Yukimura catches it with his racket, and bounces it there a few times with a shrug. "Or maybe you're too human," he gently teases, and lazily smacks the ball back over the net. "He's shy and anxious and you're basically the only person that I've seen him speak more than three words to at a time. Gentle persuasion, that's all I can suggest. Ah--maybe he's just afraid of making things _worse_ somehow." 

 

“You don’t need to tell me how to deal with him,” Atobe mutters, whacking the ball back--not quite a rondo, but more than a slice. “I’m the one who got him to look up from his books and have a human interaction for once, you know? I mean--did you _ever_ think he could?”

 

" _You're_ the one that looked at a loss," Yukimura hums, taking the sharpness out of the ball with another backhand, aiming towards the baseline again. "Just thought it might help to hear it from another person, that's all. For the record, I think you're in the right entirely."

 

That helps, coming from someone who doesn’t exist just to tell him that he’s right. Of course, Kabaji is always _correct_ , but that doesn’t make him any less of a yes-man. Atobe wouldn’t have a yes-man if he weren’t always right, that would be unforgivably egotistical. “As I thought,” he muses, this time slamming the ball back towards the net, letting it barely topple over. “And you’re someone that can make The Emperor blush.”

 

Yukimura makes a half-hearted dive for the ball, and ends up a step too slow. Ah, well. He sighs, and hooks his racket underneath it to toss it up into the air before catching it. "I _am_ very good at that, yes. To be fair, though, it doesn't take much." 

 

“I always thought I’d wind up with someone different,” Atobe says with a grin, crouching into a stance he’d never dare if there were spectators, waiting for a serve. “I thought I’d wind up with someone, oh….who wanted to travel the world and look at magnificent museums, and be my arm candy at galas, and kiss on top of famous bridges. I think bridges give him hives, can you imagine?”

 

"He's arm candy enough even with hives, so drag him along anyway," Yukimura tosses back with a smirk, and his next serve is more akin to vicious than anything, slamming right at Atobe's feet before skimming past him in short order. "He must be used to travel by now, he's a _professional_." 

 

Atobe curses, going into a stupid little hop-step to catch his balance. “He might be used to it--shit, that’s going out--but he hates it. What about Sanada? Does he like going to art galleries?”

 

Yukimura takes about two steps back to better watch the ball sail out of bounds, and trots off to pluck another one up. " _Japanese_ art galleries. Really traditional stuff, which is pretty hit and miss if you ask me. He's great about going to theatre and music productions, though. Want another one like that? Step back with your right foot to pivot, none of that hopping crap." 

 

Atobe blinks, and nods slowly, running through the move in his head for a moment. “Yeah, give me another one. I think I have it now.” He tries the step Yukimura recommended, and watches the ball soar over in a neat arc. “Yeah, good. I can’t stand the traditional stuff, too flat for me. Does his house have a shishi-odoshi?”

 

"Good! And yeah, it had one of those, _and_ like, fifteen different little butsudans," Yukimura laughs, neatly lobbing the ball back to him. "Or okay, maybe not that many, but it seemed like it when I was younger. It was _so_ boring and stuffy at his house. Do you know he still wakes up at four in the morning every day to meditate and has since he was _four years old?_ " 

 

“Damn. That’s a bit...excessive, or so I’d say for anyone else in the world. But, well...it’s sort of _him_ , isn’t it? At least, I always thought of him as a massive stick in the mud. Maybe he’s crystallized.”

 

" _Crystallized?_ More…hmm. He's just very traditional. At least he's not _so_ very anti-social, not like someone's boyfriend that I know." Yukimura tilts his head, shrugging. "Also, he usually does it again at night, and that's a good time to sit and draw him for hours. It works out, great anatomy practice."

 

Atobe thinks about that for a moment, then nods. “I suppose if one has to draw someone other than me, he’d be excellent practice. Doesn’t move, and he’s certainly got a nice enough body. Ah, but he has those small eyes, isn’t that a problem for drawing?”

 

"Don't be rude, he has lovely eyes." Suddenly, an idea. "Hey, let me use you as a model, it'll really freak them both out." Tezuka more so than Sanada, no doubt, which suits Yukimura just fine. 

 

“Sounds delightful! I have, of course, been wondering when you would ask.” Atobe flicks the hair out of his eyes, a little mischief sparkling there. “You’ll find me agreeable, it is hardly my first modeling occasion.”

 

"Let's do it, then!" Focus thoroughly diverted, Yukimura fairly bounds off to his tennis bag, racket stuffed away and sketchbook procured. "Let's go inside, I haven't had a new subject in _awhile_ , no one else knows how to hold still and I want to _enjoy_ it. Where is your mother from, anyway, if you don't mind me asking? My mom's never mentioned it and Tezuka seems to make a joke about a different country every time I see you two."

 

“Tezuka doesn’t make jokes. He just has no idea where she’s from.” Atobe sticks his racket in the rack, trotting off after Yukimura. “If I told him she was part Italian, part German, part French, and part Moroccan he’d probably explode. That’s just how things _are_ , over there.”

 

"That's _lovely_ , though. I was just curious because you look a little Mediterranean, so I wanted to guess Italian." Yukimura sighs a little. "I haven't been to many places in Europe, though. Just France, and that was when I was 12 and it was just tennis all the time, so I didn't get to do anything else. I think Sanada would explode if we went at some point; he was already off-kilter enough in China."

 

Atobe grins. “Would you like to go? Go ahead and ask your parents if you can stay the night, we can have dinner in Paris if you want. I know a man who’ll keep the Louvre open for us past midnight, if you want.”

 

Yukimura peers at him, blinking. "You're serious. Right, of course you're serious. Oh, my mom is _weird_ about me traveling even now, though," he crossly says. "Maybe if it's your family she'd say yes, but still…" 

 

“She’s not invited.” Atobe’s smile thins. “Neither is my mother. Honestly, you don’t have to tell them _where_ you’re going, just that you’ll be with me. For all they know, we’re going to karaoke.” He pokes Yukimura in the side. “You’re more of a _good boy_ than I thought.”

 

Yukimura's sketchbook comes down in a light smack to the top of Atobe's head. "Don't be an ass. I just used up a lot of points sneaking off to see Sanada while he was in Ibaraki." He bites his lower lip, slowly worrying at it. "If you're _sure_ they're not going to find out…ah, forget I said that, just kidnap me." 

 

“Gladly! Though for the sake of romance, I suggest that you get Sanada to kidnap you, and I’ll throw Kunimitsu over my shoulder.” Not that he’ll probably have to. Tezuka’s gotten much better about going with the flow of his adventures in recent months. “Oi, Kunimitsu!” he calls, eyes alight as they re-enter the drawing room. “Let’s go on an _adventure_!”

 

Tezuka groans from underneath the book plastered to his face. "How dressed up does this require me to be?"

 

"Ge-n-ichi-rou," Yukimura sing-songs, flopping himself down into Sanada's lap. "You have to kidnap me tonight."

 

“Not at all,” Atobe assures him. “The Eiffel Tower doesn’t care what you look like.”

 

Sanada blinks, and curls his arms around Yukimura instinctively, just in case he might fall. “Is it all right? Do you want to go?”

 

"Oh, we're definitely going. To France. Right now." 

 

Tezuka seems at least remotely satisfied that he doesn't have to change, and gets up to go and grab a few more books for the trip. 

 

"It'll be fun," Yukimura reassures him immediately, draping his arms about Sanada's neck. "But you definitely have to come with me and never tell my parents that we went. Ever."

 

“I don’t usually tell your parents on you, you know,” Sanada mutters, and nudges his nose into Yukimura’s hair. “That sounds good. Atobe, that’s….” He sets his teeth. “Generous. Very generous.” He sets them harder. “Thank you.”

 

“Don’t hurt yourself, I just wanted escargot,” Atobe says, waving a hand. “Relax for just a moment, I’ll call the jet.”

 

Tezuka calmly fishes out the motion sickness pills. 

 

"Ah. Good point. I've been talking about Tezuka for too long, I was expecting more resistance," Yukimura admits underneath his breath, and smiles, swiftly leaning up to press a kiss to Sanada's cheek. "You're perfect." 

 

Sanada goes slowly pink. “Seiichi! Not in front of—”

 

“If it makes you more comfortable, I could goose Kunimitsu,” Atobe says cheerfully.

 

Sanada shudders. “I’ll do without, thanks.”

 

"Refrain," Tezuka flatly chimes in.

 

"Let's all get along, hmm? Oh, let me call my mom and tell her we're staying over--" Yukimura untangles himself to fish out his phone. "Atobe, don't forget, you're still going to be my model for the duration of the trip."

 

“Of course! You’ll find my jet quite the smooth ride.”

 

Sanada blinks, and his eyes narrow. “I thought I was your model.”

 

"You are. I just have twenty-five sketchbooks filled with you, let me practice with someone else's anatomy," Yukimura says with a gentle pinch to Sanada's side as he brings the phone to his ear. "Hi, Mom. We're going to spend the night here, is that okay?"

 

Tezuka can't quite help the dirty look cast in Yukimura's direction for that _phrasing_ about anatomy. Does he do that on purpose?

 

“Of course, darling! Do you need toothbrushes, or--ah, I forgot, you’re with Bianca’s son. I’m so glad you two get along! Is Gen-chan with you?”

 

"Of course he is, and you know he's a stick in the mud that won't let me get in any trouble," Yukimura says with a smirk, poking at Sanada's cheek as he says it. "I'll call you in the morning, okay?" 

 

“Have fun! Call me if you have a seizure, does Bianca’s son know your physician’s number?”

 

“He’ll be fine,” Sanada says, into the receiver. “I have all his medical information with me all the time.”

 

“That’s settled, then,” Atobe declares, and claps his hands together as he hangs up his phone. “Four minutes, and we’re off!”

 

" _Bye_ , Mom." Yukimura hangs up his own phone with a roll of his eyes, and loops an arm right back around Sanada's neck. "Kidnapping time."

 

Tezuka heaves a sigh that says he is very much resigned to his fate, and not _so_ unhappy about it. Occasionally being dragged into Atobe's adventuring is nice, once in awhile. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

If there is one thing Fuji Shuusuke has often been criticized upon, it's his focus.

 

High school is a new beginning for that. It's what he tells himself regarding his classes and his friends and his club decisions. If he focuses, he won't think about troublesome things. 

 

That first troublesome thing is tennis, which he removes from his life with a smile. 

 

"Bro, are you _serious?_ " Yuuta asks, aghast, when he finds out that his older brother doesn't even submit a form for his high school's tennis club. "But you're…I haven't even had a chance to beat you!"

 

"Ahh, interests change and all that. It was just a hobby, after all!" 

 

Yuuta can learn, too, what it feels like to have a goal and _prize_ snatched away. It's something he firmly and resolutely decides to forget about, though, especially when _someone_ sends him odd, harassing messages while he's trying to do his summer homework. 

 

It's fine. 

 

He really can do without Te…nnis. 

 

Briefly, Fuji contemplates creating a cactus appreciation committee, but there aren't many appreciators of cacti around, or so it seems. It turns out there aren't many persons fond of the curling sport, either, but that's just as well, when he creates the club.

 

"I'm the founder, captain, _and_ ace," Fuji brightly tells Eiji after class resumes following summer break. "Do you know they sometimes call it 'Chess on Ice'? I think it's very fitting." 

 

Eiji flops onto his stomach on the railing, head tilted all the way to the side. “Ehh? But I guess you think chess is fun, so…” His brow furrows, and he kicks a leg up into the air, contemplative. “How many people do you have?”

 

"Oh, it's just me. I'll singlehandedly take our school to the championship! You should come to our games. When they happen, of course." They will. Eventually. Other high schools will see the glory that comes from curling victory.

 

Eiji’s frown deepens, and he swings down to the ground, poking Fuji in the forehead. “But don’t you get lonely not playing with anyone? You need like, at least two people for chess, don’t you?”

 

Fuji blinks, and then smiles at him. "You could come play with me," he logically replies. "Invite Oishi, too." 

 

“Uhh, but we have tennis,” Eiji points out, lacing his fingers behind his head as he walks. “You could come back to the tennis club, even if you missed the rankings I’m sure the Captain would still let you play because you’re Fuji.”

 

That mindset is both annoying and flattering. Fuji can't decide which he is more. "Hmmm, pass. Ah, that reminds me. Did you send me a number of rude text messages last week? I'm not mad anymore, so it's fine if you did," Fuji brightly adds. "I'd just like to know, for future reference."

 

Eiji blinks. “My dad took my phone last week. He said I can have it back when I’m getting the same grades I got on my entrance exams, what a _pain_.”

 

"I can tutor you," Fuji mildly offers, one little knot unwinding in his stomach in relief. "So long as it isn't science things. Let Oishi do that." Maybe it's Yuuta's-friend-that-he-can't-remember after all. It seems like something obnoxious enough on his level. 

 

“Ehh, I don’t need _tutoring_ ,” Eiji complains. “Besides, he didn’t take my computer, so it’s okay. Hey, why’d you quit tennis?” Not even close to the first time he’s asked, but maybe this time he’ll get a response.

 

"The club does well enough without me, doesn't it? So it doesn't matter." Best 8 in the nation is nothing to sneeze about--never mind if that isn't the point and Fuji knows it. It's just best not to even _go_ there. 

 

“I guess so,” Eiji says doubtfully. “Hey, you want to come over tonight? My dad is working late, we can play video games and make fun of Oishi trying to google things in the address bar.”

 

"That _does_ sound entertaining…hmmm. If you make me spicy kimchi, I'll definitely come. Otherwise, my incentive to leave my cacti alone at such a critical time is low."

 

“What’s critical about it?” Eiji wonders aloud. “Are they getting less spiky or something? Ah, but spicy kimchi is fine! I think I have at least most of the ingredients. Yay, party!”

 

Fuji beams. "You should know better than to question the lives of cacti by now, Eiji. But yes, party."

 

“Yaaay!” Eiji turns a cartwheel, hair bouncing as he comes up to his feet. “You should bring drinks, I had Chibi-chan over a few days ago and he drank all the Ponta.”

 

"Ah, as rude as always. Is more Ponta fine, or do you want something else?" Fuji flips out his phone, sending his sister a text to make sure she doesn't try to come and pick him up later. "A shame they didn't have any good doubles this year." Damn it, he can't _not_ talk about tennis, it seems like. 

 

“They’ll do great next year. Kaidou’s just getting the hang of being captain, next year they’ll kick butt. Ah, you can bring whatever--hey, can your sister get beer?”

 

"He'll be gone next year, so Echizen will be captain. Isn't that horrifying?" Fuji erases the previous text, and asks his sister about beer instead. 

 

“You don’t think Chibi-chan will do a good job? I think he’ll be the best captain ever!” Eiji pokes Fuji in the face again, a few times. “Are you doubting the awesomeness of Seigaku? Is that why you quit? Hey, hey, Fujiko-chan, is that why you quit?”

 

"Eiji," Fuji _sweetly_ begins, "if you poke me again, I swear I'm going to assume you were the person that sent those text messages after all, and I'm never going to party with you ever again."

 

Eiji’s face falls, and he retracts his finger. “What text messages? Oi, you should know I don’t lie about stuff like that, did they say you were a girl or something? Tezuka-buchou used to get really mad when he got texts from Atobe, maybe it was Atobe.”

 

Fuji pauses. 

 

Damn it. Of _course_. 

 

He flips to his inbox in an instant, frowning when he flips down to the old saved messages. 'Sender removed for reasons of national security' his ass. "…Someone was sending me texts about Tezuka," he finally answers, shutting his phone before he can look too long at that single, obviously hastily taken picture sent along with one of the texts. "I thought maybe it was you at first, but you're not lying, I know."

 

“Ehh, about Tezuka-buchou?” Eiji asks, suddenly intrigued. He jumps up, looping his arms around Fuji’s shoulders from behind. “What about him? Is he okay? Was it nasty? Ooh, was it a mystery we have to solve? I have a hat somewhere, mystery-solvers should wear hats.”

 

"No hats. They were just asking if I was interested, it was really obnoxious." Fuji sighs, reaching back to give Eiji's head a pat. "It just took me by surprise and marred what was supposed to be a pleasant summer vacation." _Especially with the fact that Tezuka was apparently in Japan and didn't once call._

 

“How fun of a vacation could it be?” Eiji asks, butting his head against Fuji’s hand. “You didn’t play tennis with us. Hey, hey,” he says, switching subjects at a high-bouncing speed, “did you read the article in Tennis Monthly last week? They mentioned me!”

 

Fuji wants to cry in relief at Eiji's short attention span. His phone buzzes, and it's his sister texting back with a great amount of 'wwwwww' and 'guess I'm contributing to Shuusuke's delinquency.'  "Mm, I think I missed it. Show it to me tonight." 

 

“Yeah! I bought three copies. It wasn’t the reporters that mentioned me, it was actually Yukimura-buchou--I didn’t think he knew who I was!” Eiji lets go of Fuji’s shoulders, hopping up to balance toe-heel-toe-heel on a curb as they walk. “He called me a kitten.”

 

There's really no helping the _stare_ that follows that. "Really? That sounds _dirty_ , Eiji," Fuji teases, poking him in the side with his phone before pocketing it. "And what's with the 'Yukimura-buchou' thing? Next thing I know, you'll be transferring to Azobu." 

 

Eiji grins. “Oh good, I thought I was the only one who thought it sounded dirty. Oishi told me I was reading too much into it.” He hops a few steps on one foot, just to see if he can on the uneven surface, then starts walking normally again. “I don’t know, that’s just...I don’t want to transfer or anything, but there’s something super captain-y about him. So buchou.”

 

"He does have that sort of presence…" And Fuji can _thoroughly_ understand the appeal of captains. "It definitely sounds dirty, though. Oishi is probably just jealous that he didn't think of something so cute and sexual at once." 

 

Eiji shivers a little, jumping off the curb to lean against Fuji’s side. “Oishi says he won’t call me kitten when I’m sucking him off. I think that’s rude. I do the boring stuff _he_ likes.”

 

Fuji's eyebrows climb, and he leans against Eiji in turn. "Out of curiosity, how many times have you gotten off to that idea just in the past week?" 

 

Eiji bites his lip, and looks up at Fuji with a devilish smile. “Four.”

 

"Ooh. Well, it is pretty obscene. Maybe _Yukimura-buchou_ would be interested in obliging you."

 

“Nah, he said no.”

 

"…Eiji, you are the bravest man I've ever known." 

 

Eiji shrugs. “What’s to be brave about? He’s just a tennis player, not a mafia captain. Besides, I have a cousin that goes to Azobu, he says there’s a lot of locker-room hookups and stuff. Ah, I wish we had those here, that sounds like fun! Probably not so much fun for the curling team, though…”

 

"All boys' schools do seem prone to that…I wonder how many confessions he gets." Fuji would like a few that aren't from girls with stubby fingers. Maybe some from tall guys with _cheekbones_ and glasses and…he'll stop there. "Also, please don't insult the curling team. I've never lost a match." 

 

“You’ve never _had_ a match,” Eiji points out, knowing it’s helpless. “All-boys’ schools sound fun sometimes, but...ahhh, I’d miss looking at girls, they’re always so cute!”

 

"But I've never lost one, either," Fuji 'logically' points out, reaching up to pull at the corner of a fresh bandaid stuck to Eiji's cheek. "And it sounds like to me that you'd be looking at _Yukimura-buchou_ as much as you look at girls. Or you could just look at me, I've been told I'm cute."

 

Eiji bats at his hand, turning his head to snap his teeth at the incurring fingers. “Fujiko-chan is plenty cute,” he says with a grin, “almost as cute as a girl. Ah, and you can take a compliment, not like Yukimura-buchou, he gets really _pissy_. And not the fun kind of pissy like Oishi, the really cold kind.”

 

Fuji wiggles his fingers, nonplussed. "We all have our insecurities, I suppose. But really, how much did you hit on him, Eiji? If you're not careful, you'll make Oishi actually angry, you know."

 

“Then Oishi should stop being a stick in the mud and have fun when I tell him to come party with me,” Eiji mutters. “He’s been so booooring since we got to high school, he never has time for me anymore outside tennis club.”

 

"He's just working hard. You know he gets a little overwhelmed and flustered in new situations," Fuji points out, and gently flicks the tip of Eiji's nose. "We can party tonight, that should make up for it a little bit." 

 

Eiji’s smile returns in full, brilliant force. “Yaaay! If Oishi doesn’t come we can party just the two of us, but I’ll try and make him come. Usually if I say you’re gonna be there he wants to come to keep an eye on me, that’s good.”

 

"Ah, yes," Fuji serenely agrees. "Because I'm going to eat you alive, and he needs to pick up the pieces." 

 

Eiji laughs, tweaking Fuji’s nose and bouncing away. “I hope so. Oi, see you tonight, okay? I’m late!”

 

"Mm, tonight!" For better or for worse, at least there will be beer. 

 

~~

 

Oishi is to beer like his cacti are to overwatering.

 

"We're _underage_ ," he hisses through his teeth when they camp out in Eiji's bedroom, Oishi settles down for homework, and Fuji reveals what is in the bag of snacks and assorted things that his sister shoved at him. "If your mom walks in--"

 

"Just blame me," Fuji cheerfully interrupts. "I'm a delinquent, obviously."

 

Oishi strangles a sound in his throat, but he doesn't quite disagree. He flinches hilariously when Fuji pops open a can and tosses another one to Eiji.

 

“My mom’s got a migraine,” Eiji says happily, and hops up on the bed to sprawl out on his stomach before popping his can open. He grimaces at the first taste, but gets over that manfully enough with one big swallow. “Ah, this is good beer, right?”

 

"Mm. Neesan never gets the cheap stuff." 

 

" _Both of you_ \--"

 

"Ah, Eiji, show me that magazine," Fuji hums as he flops himself down onto the bed next to his friend. Oishi exhales a long, exasperated sigh, and continues clearing off Eiji's desk to make a proper workspace. 

 

Eiji pulls out a magazine that’s entirely too worn to be only a week old, speaking of multiple rereadings. He flips to the page that mentions him, pointing just underneath a photo of Yukimura with his arms folded, jersey hanging off his shoulders. “He’s so good at looking intimidating, don’t you think? Look, he talks about me!”

 

No matter how he tries, getting away from _tennis_ is an impossible thing. At least it's Eiji. If it's Eiji, Fuji finds he doesn't mind quite so much. "Maybe you could try wearing your jersey like that…hmm, but I think it would fall off if you were flipping around," Fuji idly notes, propping his chin in one hand as he reads. "That's a solid compliment about your volley, though! Coming from him, you should be really happy…kitten," he adds teasingly. 

 

Eiji makes a little pleased noise, stretching out and nudging Fuji’s side with his leg. “Oi, Oishi, Fujiko-chan says he’ll call me kitten if I want him to,” he says, craning his neck around to look at Oishi. Damn him, he’s so _close_ to being everything Eiji wants, if he’d only be a little more excitable and less of a party pooper. “Maybe if you have some beer you will, too.”

 

"Why are you so obsessed with being called that?" Oishi returns in exasperation, scowling over his shoulder. "And I'm not _drinking_. You shouldn't be either!"

 

Fuji takes a long drink of his beer just to drive the point home. 

 

“I just think it’s cuuuute,” Eiji pouts, taking another drink then setting his beer down, flopping onto his back. “You never give me cute nicknames. If you did I’d want to be called them too.”

 

"You…but you're _Eiji_ , that's already--" Oishi spares a frantic glance in Fuji's direction, who merely smiles. His cheeks flush hot, and his voice drops. "That's already cute enough, isn't it?"

 

"I think it's more a matter of just wanting an imposing authority figure calling him something lewd." 

 

Oishi gapes at him. "You're reading far too much into it!"

 

Fuji shrugs. "Who knows?" 

 

“Ohh, is that what it is?” Eiji asks, intrigued more than anything. He kicks a leg up into the air, slowly rotating his ankle, intrigued by the slight prickles of feeling when he moves. “Hmm, maybe. I still think it would be better if Oishi called me something cute that no one else calls me. Or maybe if Yukimura-buchou called me kitten when I was…”

 

" _Eiji!_ " 

 

"Sucking him off?"

 

" _Fuji!_ " 

 

Fuji wonders if Oishi is going to have an aneurysm. That might be for the best. "I'll call you kitten while you do that, if Oishi doesn't want to," he says, unfazed. Oishi makes a sound like a dying, suffocating bird. 

 

Eiji blinks slowly, then kicks his legs in the air to bound up into a sitting position. He nudges Oishi with his toe, asking wickedly, “You get first pick, if you want. I told you you’re number one, so if you want me to suck you off I will.” There’s a strong undercurrent of _but if not can I can I can I please please please._

 

Oishi opens his mouth, shuts it again, and tries not to die on the spot. Fuji looks as peacefully content as ever, which is just _weird_ considering the subject material. God, if it weren't about something _some other guy said_ … "J-just…go ahead with Fuji. I…maybe we can…try it later." _When he isn't here and you aren't quite as caught up on something someone else called you._

 

Predictable. Fuji can't think of any complaints at the moment, though, even when he smirks and asks Eiji, "Want me to wear your jersey like Yukimura-buchou wears his?" 

 

Oishi groans. _This is your life, Shuuichirou. Congratulations._

 

“You’re making it weird,” Eiji complains, wriggling down between Fuji’s legs. No kiss--he doesn’t kiss people who aren’t Oishi, and Oishi looks kind of constipated. “I don’t want you to _be_ him or anything, gross.”

 

Unrepentantly, he mouths over the fabric between Fuji’s legs, feeling the softness there start to swell and fill out. “But you can pat my head.”

 

"Sorry, sorry." Fuji downs the rest of his beer before tossing the can into the nearby trashcan, and settles back with a sigh, sliding a hand down through Eiji's hair. It's always so soft and _fluffy_ , and Fuji makes a few mental comparisons to other people's hair that he wishes he didn't do automatically. "You're so cute about it that it's kind of hard not to tease you." 

 

Eiji can’t help but look over at Oishi as he nuzzles up the inside of one thigh, dragging his teeth over the softness there with the fabric as a barrier. He flicks open the button on Fuji’s pants, watching Oishi’s every eyeblink. There’s something unbelievably hot about doing this in front of his boyfriend, enough to make him hard and squirming a little when he undoes Fuji’s zipper. “Oi,” he calls, as casually as he can when his voice is already a little breathy. “Oishi, can you get me a condom from my bag?”

 

Oishi is starting to regret his decision. 

 

Eiji has a way of making him do that, though, for better or worse. He manages a nod, and forces himself not to look _extensively_ when he gets up to go dig through Eiji's bag. Of course, he knows exactly where Eiji keeps the condoms, and he wonders what that says about _him_ as such a willing accomplice. 

 

He should probably mind more. Probably. Except he doesn't, not when he gets to watch his boyfriend out of the corner of his eye. 

 

"H-here." Fuji isn't exactly _helping_ , either, because all weirdness aside, he's pretty and he and Eiji _look_ pretty together and--ah, Oishi knows he is morphing into a delinquent, especially because he can't quite look away from how Fuji's legs splay and how his fingers wrap up in Eiji's hair like that. _Doomed, I'm doomed_. 

 

Eiji makes a pleased, purring little noise, butting his head against Fuji’s hands as his eyes lid. “Thanks,” he says, all cheer and a bright smile, and his hand lingers on Oishi’s for a moment when he takes the package from him.

 

Then he uses sharp teeth to open it, finagling for a minute until he has it in the right position. “Got it.”

 

He pulls Fuji out of his pants, his own legs pressing together as his cock fills at how _dirty_ this is, at Fuji’s hands in his hair, at Oishi’s eyes on him as he slowly rolls the condom down over Fuji’s cock with his mouth.

 

Oishi makes a low, strangled noise in the back of his throat as he collapses back into the desk chair again, entirely unable to look away.

 

"God, you're good at that," Fuji murmurs, biting his lower lip to keep down a breathy, pleased noise. He'd wonder exactly how long that took to perfect if he didn't know first hand, which makes him grin a little, his hips twitching up on purpose to slide his cock more insistently along Eiji's tongue. "And here I thought kittens were such _messy_ things." 

 

Eiji makes a little noise of protest, sucking hard on the head and twirling his tongue around, pulling back slightly to meet Fuji’s eyes, letting the tip of his cock rest on his lips. “Mm, don’t you know? Kittens like to lick up messes.”

 

His eyes dart to the side, seeing the way Oishi stares, and he lets out a little whimper when he goes back down, lips stretching around Fuji’s cock. He slides a hand down, palming himself slowly through his pants.

 

Fuji shifts with a groan, his fingers dragging along Eiji's scalp as he stretches a leg down, nudging away his hand with his toes. "Be a good kitten, then, and wait your turn," he breathes, pressing his foot down gently and shivering at how _hard_ Eiji is. "The better you are, the more I'll want to lick you clean, too." And Eiji is _always_ good, especially right now when he's so eager, when his mouth is so hot and slick and Fuji can't _help_ but pull on his hair a bit when he arches up, sliding that much deeper down his throat. His own eyes flicker over to Oishi, and there's no denying that they're going to kill him some day by doing this. _What a way to die._

 

Eiji lets out a long, drawn-out noise of protest against Fuji’s cock, but he moves his hand away obediently. Instead, he moves them both to Fuji’s thighs, nails digging in a bit when he mouths over the side of his cock, then swallows it down almost to the root. He gags slightly, eyes watering as he pulls back, only to go back down. He stops trying to make eye contact with Oishi now, not that he could anyway, and just focuses on trying to make Fuji come as fast as he can.

 

It had been fun to play with him, but now he’s _hard_ , and it’s never as much fun to play when he’s aching like this. His licks are sloppy and urgent, and he takes as much as he can, bobbing his head furiously.

 

They probably know each other too well with sex to be just _friends_ , when it comes down to it. 

 

Fuji doesn't mind in the slightest, not when Eiji is so _good_ with his mouth, not when he's trying so deliberately to push every button Fuji has and it's _working_. Fuji huffs, flopping back onto his elbows, mindlessly stroking and petting and tugging at Eiji's hair when his hips cant up and there's no _use_ in trying to hold back. 

 

If not for the condom, he would have had fun _really_ making Eiji lick everything up. It is what it is, though, and instead Fuji just shoves in deep, shuddering when he feels Eiji's throat work around him, and comes with a breathy, ragged sound. "T-that's it," he pants out. "Don't miss a drop, kitten, and I'll--ahh…take care of you, too--" 

 

Eiji can feel him pulse, feels the condom fill in his mouth, and the idea of what it would be like without makes him shiver. He’s achingly hard, and he lunges forward, swallowing around Fuji’s cock to milk every last bit out of him.

 

He pulls off when Fuji goes still, lips red and swollen and dripping with a strand of saliva still connecting him. His eyes are dilated and he lurches forward, ignoring the way Fuji softens in the condom. One hand grabs Fuji’s, pressing it to the hardness between his legs as he rubs forward. “Fujiko-chan, be a good girl and take care of me, _please_ ,” he whines, pawing at Fuji’s chest.

 

"Up _here_ ," Fuji eagerly groans, giving Eiji's cock a firm squeeze through his pants before he flops onto his back, yanking Eiji after him and all but onto his chest. He's still shaky and shivery and his hands aren't the most coordinated when he yanks open the fastenings of Eiji's pants, but all his mind can process is _in my mouth right now let me taste you_. "Ahh, god, you're so hard--j-just--jerk off on my face, or put it in my mouth, I don't care--"

 

He hears Oishi's muffled, bitten back curse somewhere beyond the thudding of his own pulse. _Me, too, Oishi; me, too._

 

Eiji sort of vaguely considers fumbling for another condom, but there sort of isn’t _time_ with how hard he is. Oh, well, Oishi will probably forgive him. It’s better than the other way around, probably.

 

And there isn’t _time_.

 

He pulls out his cock, so hard it throbs in his hand and makes him jerk forward, and he doesn’t even have time to say anything but “Aaahhh, shit—”

 

The tip of his cock bumps against Fuji’s chin, and once against his lips before Eiji loses it, rubbing against Fuji’s face as he comes, smearing hot, sticky trails over his lips and cheek (and nose, whoops).

 

Fuji laughs-sneezes-shivers (weird to do all three of those at once, but that basically describes every time they have sex), and lurches up enough to drag his tongue sloppily over the tip of Eiji's cock, his eyes fluttering shut when the taste makes him shudder anew. "Ahh… really good," he dazedly murmurs, slumping back and making absolutely no attempt to wipe his face clean just yet. 

 

Oishi strangles down a breathy, broken noise, and is glad that he, at least, jerks off  and ends up coming without _too_ much mess (and tissues work wonders, besides). Eiji and Fuji make up for it in spades.

 

Eiji reaches down, running a hand through Fuji’s hair in a gentle scratching motion. “Nn, you’re making me all wiggly,” he whines, hardly complaining no matter what it sounds like. 

 

He cranes his neck around, lidded eyes focused on Oishi. “Ooh, you came a lot. You mad at me for being messy on Fujiko-chan here?”

 

Oishi flushes hotter still, and barely resists throwing his balled up tissues at Eiji. "It's your bed, so you're the one that has to deal with the mess."

 

Fuji makes a breathy purring sound, and butts his head up into Eiji's hands. "It's fun when it's messy. Ah, Eiji, why is it so hot when you call me a girl?" 

 

“Mmm, same reason it’s hot when you call me kitten.” Eiji scritches fondly a little more, then rolls slowly to the side, flopping down on top of Fuji’s chest, “Because we’re pretty horny guys, I guess.”

 

He looks up, resting his chin on Fuji’s chest and looking at Oishi. “You don’t like it when I party without party hats, though. I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

 

That terminology never stops being funny, and Fuji sputters as he stuffs his face into Eiji's hair.

 

"It's…it's fine this time," Oishi mumbles, heaving a sigh as he fixes up his own clothing and slumps back into the chair. "Just don't make a habit of it, it's not a good idea." 

 

"I haven't been with anyone else since the last time we--"

 

"I'm doing homework now," Oishi firmly announces, though secretly breathes a little relieved sigh at Fuji's admission. One never knows with _Fuji_. 

 

“I used one when it was important,” Eiji points out, plucking at the used condom between Fuji’s legs, lifting it by the open end. “Ooh, you made it really full,” he says, a little intrigued as he plays with the latex.

 

"Your fault," Fuji cheerfully replies. 

 

"Eiji, throw that away already," Oishi sighs.

 

"Oh! I wanted to ask, Oishi! Have you heard from Tezuka lately?"

 

 _And so it begins_. "Ah…not so recently. You know how he is." Oishi has long learned not to take offense when it comes to Tezuka spacing out and not contacting anyone for weeks, but some people (Fuji) just never quite…get it. 

 

"Ah, that's too bad. If you do hear from him, tell him the cactus I named after him is doing well, won't you? I thought he might want to know."

 

“Why would anyone want to know that?” Eiji asks, tying the condom into a skillful knot and flicking it into the trash can. “Oishi, put your tissues in over it just in case my brothers come in.”

 

"Lots of people would want to know about how their namesakes are doing, I think."

 

"I'll…tell him." Oishi definitely isn't going to tell him. He leans over to delicately arrange the tissues in question. 

 

"Thank you!" Fuji promptly snuggles his way against Eiji. Oishi thinks him weirder than ever.

 

“Oishiii, come snuggle,” Eiji demands. “It’s not as good if you’re not here. Come snuggle immediately.”

 

There's no helping it when Eiji says it like _that_. "…All right, but after this, I'm really doing homework," Oishi insists, and he carefully flops himself onto the bed on the other side of Eiji, pressing his lips to the top of his head. 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Eiji agrees easily, and snuggles back against Oishi’s smoothly muscled warmth, draping a leg over Fuji’s body. “Ah, it’s kinda weird to have my pants on but my dick out, I think. Hmm. Maybe it’s okay.”

 

"Easy access," Fuji sleepily declares.

 

"Enough already," Oishi mutters. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Between Paris, practice, and their summer training camp at Yanagi's family's boarding house, Yukimura is pleasantly exhausted by the time school starts up again. He's all the more grateful for _dorm life_ , which is something he thought he would never say, but it means privacy from little sisters, prying mothers, and that much more _Sanada_. 

 

There's also easy access to _tennis courts_. 

 

"Even if it's the off-season, we can't afford to get sloppy!" And isn't that always the truth, when Marui wants to run off and bake for extended periods rather than come to the court early (whatever, we'll have a bake sale for fundraising at the upcoming festival!), or when Kirihara shows up in the middle of the week, begging to practice with them because the entire team of regulars at Rikkai has the flu (if any of you had half the dedication that Akaya has, we'd be in near-perfect shape!). 

 

And then there things far more difficult to morph exactly to his specifications. 

 

"We'll cut down on practice this week so everyone has time to prepare for their exams--good luck!" 

 

Yukimura isn't _so_ concerned. It's just chemistry that could _possibly_ put a damper on his plans. He never went to the required labs in middle school and it was still fine, and after this, he'll never have to take it again. 

 

He's half-asleep when the rankings are posted, and listlessly leans on Niou's shoulder, drinking coffee as he scours the board. Sanada is number one, predictably. Somewhere in the top 15 is pretty standard for himself.

 

But this _is_ Azobu, so he's not terribly surprised to not see his name that high. Not even being in the top 25 is when he starts being a little weirded out, and he surrenders his coffee to Niou's tug without protest. 

 

Niou whistles as he takes a sip. "Sure you don't want to just quit and go pro already? _I'm_ up higher than you--" 

 

Yukimura punches him in the ribs, takes back his coffee, and glares threateningly at his name next to a very obnoxious _47._

 

It takes a bit to sink in. 

 

"I'm going to get a reputation as a dumb sports freak," Yukimura miserably says at lunch. "It was just one class, my marks were high in all the others. I don't even know how I failed it, Sanada did all of my homework." 

 

"Eh, you made the cut-off for sports, so it's fine," Niou dismisses with a shrug. "We've both got it this semester, so we can…whatever nerds do." 

 

It's not very comforting, especially when he is pulled aside by the teacher, and Yukimura learns there are few things more humiliating than being found out as a cheater and hearing _really, if it were anyone but you, I would report you and your accomplice to the academic review board._

 

A flat out _0_ in the course and a chance to retake was infinitely kinder, especially if it means Sanada isn't connected to it.

 

"Tell me to run laps," he sort of resignedly imposes upon Sanada at evening practice. "If I'm going to be a dumb sports freak, then I might as well work like one." 

 

Sanada barely refrains from letting his arm raise up, preparing to smack some sense into him. There’d been a heart-stopping moment of fear when Yukimura had been called in for plagarism, but nothing had panned out, and his perfect #1 placement had remained intact. 

 

“Just go to class,” he mutters, and claps a large hand onto his captain’s shoulder. “You’re just being resistant. It isn’t as if you need to put too much effort in, after all. Just go to class and you’ll be fine.”

 

_And maybe your father won’t think I’m a bad influence and throw me out._

 

"I'm _resistant_ to calligraphy," Yukimura argues on a grumble, batting Sanada's hand away. "I _hate_ chemistry. There's a difference. Ah, god, if it didn't mean I'd get barred from playing tennis, I wouldn't care at all."

 

“I don’t see why you aren’t first in Calligraphy,” Sanada grouses, latching on to an old argument. “If you’d just take an interest, you have such a steady hand and an eye for the artistry of it, you’d beat me in no time flat.”

 

He scowls, taking his hat off to run a hand through his hair before putting it firmly back on. “I’ll tutor you as much as you need, you know. There’s no need to hate it.”

 

"It's so structured, though! Let me paint living, moving things all day, not a bunch of kanji over and over." Yukimura sighs, listing backward to lean against the fence. "I understand chemistry just fine. I don't need tutoring. I just hate it, that's all." 

 

"Hey, Buchou-#47, stop sulking and come rally with me!"

 

Yukimura pitches a tennis ball directly into Niou's forehead.

 

Sanada thinks, confused, as Yukimura goes to rally by pitching every ball somewhere painful on Niou’s body, obviously deserved. There’s just no _reason_ for Yukimura to be so avoidant of chemistry. Even if he doesn’t like something, he rarely comes in so low, and he rarely slacks off. 

 

He yanks Niou aside after practice, after Yukimura runs along to a special meeting with his family called by the principal for all persons who failed a class. Sure enough, he hears what he’d been expecting--Yukimura-buchou is _fine_ at chemistry….or would be, if he ever went to class.

 

The mystery nags at him, until he finally decides to go and check out the chemistry lab for himself.

 

The next day, he waits by the entrance to the roof at the beginning of Yukimura’s chemistry block. Unless he misses his guess, this is where the captain goes to avoid his least favorite class.

 

Today, Yukimura feigns illness--not a difficult task when anxiety gives him a nosebleed, thank god, because now his parents (father, in specific) are breathing down his neck, and like hell he can just _skip_. It's just because it's a _lab_ day, he firmly tells himself. He'll go to the other classes. Niou will be a distraction, at the very least. 

 

There's really no stopping his groan when he opens up the door to the roof and sees _Sanada_ there. "Not today," he warns before any and all preaching can start, and briskly walks past him, still shoving a tissue up against his nose. "I know what you're going to say, and I really don't care. I'll even let you tutor me; my dad says I have to have one or he'll make me quit tennis and move back home or transfer. It's all a load of draconian bullshit." 

 

Sanada puts out a hand, not letting Yukimura past him. Then he holds out a bag, stuffing it into Yukimura’s hand. “I got special permission for you from the teacher,” he says. “You can wear them during class.”

 

"Huh?" The initial urge is to twitch and prickle over the fact that Sanada is going behind his back to talk to his teacher, but--no, it's Sanada, he means well. Yukimura takes a deep breath to cool his head, sniffs as he pulls the bloody tissue back from his face, and sighs at the bag before taking a guess: "Masks don't really work, but thanks for trying." That's about as clean as he is going to come about this. 

 

Sanada reaches in himself, taking the tissue from Yukimura with his other hand and stuffing it in his own pocket--Yukimura’s wearing white, Sanada’s wearing black, it just makes sense. He pulls out one of the masks, turning it inside out. “It has an oil-soaked patch just here,” he explains, showing Yukimura the little patch he’d sewn in. “If it gets dry, I have a lot more of the stuff. There’s a few different scents, so you can choose between them.”

 

Yukimura frowns. Leave it to Sanada to figure it out. He isn't sure if he likes that, or is a dozen times more uncomfortably embarrassed about the whole thing than he was about being ranked among idiots. "…I'll give it a try," he reluctantly says, and his shoulders slump. "Sorry to be such a bother." 

 

“It’s no bother.” It doesn’t matter how many times he says it. Sanada knows that by now. “I can get transferred in with you, but not until next semester, and only if I give up music. Will you be all right until then?”

 

"Don't do that, idiot," Yukimura sighs, giving Sanada's chest an aggravated swat. "Niou's in there. He's a poor substitute for you, of course, but he'll do in a pinch. Worse comes to worse, maybe he'll light the lab on fire and the class will be canceled for the rest of the year." 

 

“That lab has highly combustible materials,” Sanada protests. “After all that time we spent getting him to only set fires _outside_ , don’t go and give him an idea like that.”

 

"In this case, it's for a good cause! And hey, better the lab than the dorms."

 

“It’s not a good cause just because you don’t like chemistry! There are students in our class who could grow up to be famous chemists and cure cancer!”

 

"Ehhh, they can do it at another school. No doctors allowed here, they're creepy." 

 

Sanada starts to protest, then sighs, tugging on the brim of his hat. “Just go to class. And try not to blame doctors your whole life, they saved you from death.”

 

"I'm not blaming them for anything; I'm just calling them creepy. Nothing wrong with that." Yukimura pops up onto his toes, grabbing Sanada's face in his hands, and pulls him down into a firm kiss. "Thank you, Genichirou." 

 

Later, before practice starts, Niou swats Sanada's ass with his racket, which makes Marui swallow his gum whole. "Nice job, HSK-san," he cheerfully congratulates, and makes a run for it. 

 

“Oi!” 

 

Sanada makes a lunge, and grabs Niou’s rattail, presumably to yank him back and administer judgment in the form of slaps. 

 

His face goes slack and startled when the rattail pops off in his hand, leaving Niou free to make a run for it. He looks down at the tail, up at Niou’s swiftly retreating back, and can’t even find the words to yell after him.

 

Instead, he sidles up to Yukimura. “What the hell is ‘H S K’? And did you know Niou’s tail was a fake?”

 

Yukimura blinks. "Hm. Maybe that one was," he replies, his head tilting to the side. "I think he has like four of them. Don't pull on them, that's strange." 

 

“How does that make me the strange one?” Sanada demands. “But what’s HSK? Niou doesn’t speak good English.”

 

"Ah, dunno. Sounds familiar, though. Yanagi, lend me your phone." _Because mine has the damned service suspended at current, thanks a lot, dad._

 

"It's safer not to pursue things involving Masaharu," Yanagi advises, and Yukimura shrugs.

 

"It's just an acronym, I bet." If it's something bad, watching Sanada flip out will at least be funny. That being said, a quick search yields amusing results, and Yukimura snickers as he passes the phone back to Yanagi. "I was right. It's a Pixiv tag--'High Spec Kareshi.'" He eyes Sanada up and down before adding, "Seems about right." 

 

Sanada blinks. “What--what’s a pixiv?”

 

"It's an online artist community," Yanagi chimes in. "For fan artists, mostly. Seiichi, I wasn't aware you were that level of perverse." 

 

"I have my moments. Not everything can be about Renoir. It's fine!" Yukimura cheerfully dismisses, smiling at Sanada as he pats his shoulder. "It's a good term for you, let's keep it." 

 

“Perverse? Did Niou call me something perverse?” Sanada’s hands ball into fists at his sides, and his eyes narrow underneath the brim of his hat. “I’ll teach him to taste the iron of my fists!”

 

"Oh, stop that immediately," Yukimura sighs out, and smacks his racket against Sanada's hip. "He was complimenting you!" 

 

"The organizational system for art online is very unique, particularly on Pixiv," Yanagi explains. "Artists add tags to their work to help sort it and categorize it. Occasionally, often-used terms arise between them, and they become common, shared methods. 'HSK' is a play on how we refer to certain technology as being very advanced and state-of-the-art, and instead, applies it to a person. In this case, a boyfriend."

 

"Or something like that!" Yukimura agrees. "Seriously, no slapping."

 

Sanada slowly lets his hand unclench. He lets the rattail fall to the ground, wiping the inside of his hand on his trousers. Really, who _knows_ where it’s been--or even what it really is. He darts a look at Yukimura, and his face colors slightly. “Why did he call me that?”

 

"Because that's what you are." Yukimura flashes him a peace sign. "I got through chemistry without any mistakes, courtesy of you." 

 

“Ah.” That makes more sense, then. Niou _is_ in the same class as Yukimura. “I...well, good.” His ears are flushing now too, and he can’t help darting looks at Yanagi. _Shit, did Yukimura tell him?_

 

"Genichirou, please give me a modicum of credit." 

 

Yukimura lays his hand on Sanada's arm. "We aren't very subtle," he solemnly says. "We never have been." 

 

Sanada’s mouth snaps shut. He can’t look at Yanagi--damn it, why doesn’t Yukimura ever tell him things? “I don’t like it. People will think wrong things. We should be more careful. Nothing against you, Renji.”

 

"There's a 97.74% chance that the entire club, and a 100% chance that all of the regulars from Rikkai, have known since our first year," Yanagi tells him, deadpan.

 

Yukimura folds his arms. "What's there to think about, anyway? This whole school has weird opinions about me, and I couldn't care less." 

 

"'Delicate, wilting flower Yukimura Seiichi-kun.'" 

 

"Renji, please don't quote them, that's disgusting." 

 

Sanada buries his head in his hands. Some days, he has to wonder whether going to Azobu is just more work than using a ceremonial dagger on himself. It would certainly be less embarrassing. “Fine! Then it’s fine!” he thunders, eyes dark and angry. “Everyone who knows gets an extra ten laps today!”

 

"If you propose the laps in such a manner, then you are guaranteeing that the variable 2.26% of the club will know as well."

 

"Let's just go play tennis!" Yukimura decides the only way to cancel out Niou's weirdness is to smack Sanada's ass with his own racket instead. "Behave, HSK-san." 

 

Sanada bows his head, defeated. “Yes, Captain.”

 

~~

 

"Our doubles are _full_ of mistakes."

 

Yukimura shifts on his bed, the mattress squeaking underneath him, and he repeats the movement to the opposite side next, just because he knows the sound makes Sanada twitch. _Living_ with Sanada has given him all the more opportunity to figure out how to make Sanada twitch, which is very fun, even after knowing a person for over a decade. "None of them can play a singles match and win except Yagyuu. Well--" He taps his pencil slowly against the spine of what doubles as a sketchbook and veritable playbook at the moment. "Maybe if Niou wouldn't play around so much…what do you think about Niou?" 

 

An oddly broad question, and it makes Sanada furrow his brows. “What do I...I don’t know, what do I think _what_ about him?”

 

His eye twitches when Yukimura cracks and pops everything, squeaking everywhere. Sanada lies properly still on his back, not trying to bring the whole damn bedframe cracking to the ground. “I think he’s a flighty brat who gets away with too much because you think he’s funny.”

 

"But he _is_ funny." Yukimura rolls again-- _squeeeaaak--_ and sets his sketchbook over his own face. "I don't know, I was just curious what you _thought_ about him. You like him well enough, right? I'm just wondering how much I should threaten him about kicking him off the regulars for being a total slackass." 

 

Sanada grits his teeth at the noise, laying deliberately still. He hasn’t moved a muscle since getting into bed--he never does, unless Yukimura is in bed with him. “If he comes through the window again when we’re….you know...I’ll save you the trouble and throw him off the roof.” Then, grudgingly, “But he loves tennis. He works hard, tricks aside.”

 

"You _like him_ ," is Yukimura's immediate tease, and another roll plops him straight off of the bed. "Best idea: tell him if he doesn't win his next singles match, he doesn't get to use our window anymore." He climbs his way up into Sanada's bed in the next instant, bedcovers trailing behind him. "Thoughts?" 

 

Sanada has a moment of panic, the way he always does whenever Yukimura _does this_ \--is the door locked, are they going to have an inspection tonight, what if he farts, Yukimura will realize soon that he has no idea what he’s doing--and gets over it, curling an arm around the other boy’s waist and pulling him close. He has to, if they’re both going to fit on this tiny bed. “Good idea. Better idea, make him play a practice match soon. Shitenhoji’s in town.”

 

The giggle that Yukimura lets escape is positively diabolical. "Good, really good. He'll _love_ that." More like groan and bitch and moan and wonder why he can't just play doubles, but whatever. Close enough! In short order, Yukimura arranges and stretches himself out on top of Sanada, face half-buried into his neck. "In other news, you smell good." 

 

“Eh?” Sanada’s face flushes, and he takes that as permission, as a notification that _this is one of those sex times_. He lets his hand slide down, then up inside Yukimura’s shirt, feeling the lean muscles of his back under the splayed fingers of his hand. “You feel good.”

 

Yukimura exhales a sigh past his ear, and nuzzles up until his teeth catch the lobe of it as his back arches like a cat's. "You feel better. I'd say we should lock even the window, but…I don't wanna get up." 

 

Sanada’s breath hitches, and he stretches out, both hands coming up to Yukimura’s back, sliding slowly up and down. He forgets...well, most things. Sort of everything. “I want to stay with you,” he admits. “I want...Nn, just you.”

 

One hand wanders down, thumb plucking at the waistband of Yukimura’s pajama pants. He won’t push, never does, but the look in his eyes asks if maybe...

 

"Good thing you have me already." This time, the creak of the bed better be a welcome one when Yukimura rolls to the side and onto his back, grabbing at Sanada to haul him after him. He lurches up, catching Sanada's mouth in a brief, eager kiss before sucking on his lower lip. "We don't have to janken," he teasingly breathes, "if you just tell me what you want." 

 

All embarrassment fades when Yukimura looks at him like _that_. Sanada rolls on top of him, nipping at the other boy’s lips, hands broad and strong on Yukimura’s waist. Saying it isn’t _difficult_ , no matter how Yukimura seems to think it will be. What they do here isn’t obscene, isn’t lewd like the way Yukimura teases him. This...this is as close to sacred as he’s ever likely to get.

 

“I want to move inside you,” he breathes, hands squeezing the body that’s seen so much, been through so much for it’s youth. “Let me be your man.”

 

The words send a shiver all the way down to Yukimura's toes, making his muscles go limp and lax in an instant, and ah, god, is it _allowed_ that Sanada puts things so nicely sometimes? "Genichirou," he breathes, rumbles out the name when his fingers splay against Sanada's shoulders, paw their way down his back, and he _squirms_ at the way Sanada's weight feels against him, the way his hands are so strong and sure against him, "you're perfect. Anything you want." 

 

Sanada claims his mouth in a rough kiss, tasting his lips, sliding a leg up between Yukimura’s thigh to press against the hardness there. Too many people believe the lie, that Yukimura is weak. Sanada’s even seen some think he was a girl, and can’t understand it. There’s a man’s hard lean muscles under the pajamas, and it’s a man’s voice, however soft, whispering in his ear, making his cock throb against Yukimura’s thigh. 

 

He peels off the pajama pants, Yukimura’s and his own, and revels in the heat of their skin against one another. He grinds there for long minutes, warm skin sliding against skin, everything deliciously tangled, getting more sticky-slippery by the moment.

 

Even if it's always Sanada that Yukimura teases for being _too loud, your voice is the one that carries_ , Yukimura finds that _he_ is the one that has to bite his lip or bury his face into Sanada's shoulder in moments like these. It doesn't quite work, though, not when he wants to kiss and be kissed so badly, and he tilts his head back with a breathless groan, his back arching, hips jutting up to drag his cock hard and needy against Sanada's. "Ahh--fuck--" He swallows hard, twisting and squirming for more leverage, the hot-sticky-slick slide making his mind blur at the edges when he drags his hands down, grabbing at Sanada's ass to keep him _close_. 

 

God--Sanada almost has to warn Yukimura that if he keeps doing _that_ , they’re not going to get much farther than this.

 

For a moment, that thought sounds attractive. There’s nothing wrong with this, an easy, slow grind against each other, both of them panting and urgent, touching and kissing the whole time. 

 

But then he thinks of how Yukimura looks when Sanada’s inside him, the noises he makes, and he can’t help himself. He settles between Yukimura’s legs, feeling those long lean thighs cradling his hips, and grabs for the lube Niou had procured (being good at least for something). His hand drags up between Yukimura’s legs, rubbing gently around his hole, slick and probably a bit cooler than body temperature. “Ahh...Seiichi, let me in.”

 

Yukimura's breath hitches raggedly, and he nods even as his eyes briefly squeeze shut, legs splaying even when he trembles and tries not to think about how hard his cock is and how badly he wants to just wriggle down onto Sanada's hand. He snakes a hand down, squeezing his fingers around the base of his cock, and reminds himself it'll be much better if he _waits_. "When you put it in," he murmurs, "don't use a condom. I like it better when I can just feel _you_." 

 

Sanada’s breath catches in his throat. The idea of it makes him _twitch_ , and he nods, eyes dark and serious, locked on Yukimura’s face. 

 

Then he kisses the other man’s lips softly, and whispers, “I’ll clean you after.”

 

He can’t be blamed for being eager after that, and he slicks his cock, rubbing the head around Yukimura’s hole for a second before pushing slowly inside, sinking into that tight heat--ahh, it’s _better_ without a condom, less artificial, less _perverse_. Surely, this is more an act of love. 

 

Sanada doesn’t look away, breath hot as his parted lips brush against Yukimura’s. “We’re one, now,” he pants, dragging Yukimura down onto him by the hips.

 

Yukimura's voice breaks on a breathy, rasping keen, his muscles drawn tight and trembling even as his thighs fall open about Sanada's waist. He huffs out a breath against Sanada's mouth, his eyes lidded and dark as his fingers curl tight against Sanada's shoulders, and every jump of his own pulse feels like it's synced with the throb of Sanada's cock inside of him. 

 

"Perfect," he pants out, and Yukimura shudders at the twitch of his own hips, mindless and needy. Sanada is an ache inside of him, slick and hot and there's nothing he can do but lend himself to that, not when it makes his mind glaze over so perfectly. "J..just…ahh, _god_ , Genichirou--"

 

There’s something about hearing his name when he’s _inside_ Yukimura that makes his whole body shudder. Sanada lurches forward, mouthing over Yukimura’s neck, leaving hot, wet bites behind the trail of his lips. He can feel himself leaking already, leaving Yukimura slick and welcoming inside, and even the idea of that makes him groan helplessly. 

 

He knows it hurts, a bit. At least, it’s _uncomfortable_ , that burning slow ache inside him--yes, he knows it well enough. At least there’s pleasure to go along with that, making the hint of pain that much _better_. 

 

His hips nestle firmly against Yukimura’s ass, and he has to catch his breath, bottomed out inside the other man. “S-Seiichi,” he pants, head bowed, spine tightly arced, sweat trickling down from his hairline.

 

The sound that leaves Yukimura's throat is more a whining mewl than anything, his hands thoughtless as they rake down Sanada's spine when he arches up and his mouth falls open at how _far_ Sanada presses inside of him, filling him until his body shudders and warns _no more_ but god, when has he _ever_ respected _limits?_  

 

"You're…ahh…you're in--really deep--" It's a rather _grateful_ rasp, his toes curling and legs tensing to draw up when he squirms down, and Yukimura's voice breaks on a breathless whimper. His cock twitches and throbs between them, rubbing slick against Sanada's stomach, dripping over his own, and Yukimura lets his head fall back against the mattress, hair sticking to his face and neck. Only with Sanada can he let his mind click _off_ like this, and there's absolutely nothing better. 

 

Sanada nods wordlessly--yes, _deep_. He’s never been inside so far, and it’s difficult to think when all his mind can register is how well they move together, breathe together. Everything seems to be more of a fluid motion as he holds Yukimura up, rocking deep into him, slow, measured thrusts that let him feel every inch of Yukimura’s body squeezing down around him

 

He bends his head to Yukimura’s neck, leaving a trail of love bites in its wake, from neck to nipples. “Every part of you tastes like home.”

 

Yukimura wraps a hand up into Sanada's hair, another dragging along his spine, holding tight as he throws his head back and pants to the ceiling and tries not to let a dozen oaths fall from his tongue when he can't think, can only feel--

 

His breath hiccups, eyes squeezing shut, and that's the solitary jolt and difference in the rhythm of their bodies that he _needs_. Yukimura twists and shudders and bucks upward, the long, aching slide of his cock against the strength and heat of Sanada above him making him _whine_ , and he comes with a ragged, gasping breath, clinging to Sanada with all that he has.

 

Sanada loses himself when Yukimura _whines_. 

 

He lunges forward, hips snapping up harder than he had intended, lunging into Yukimura, filling him again and again with the sweet-slick drag of his cock inside the man. Yukimura’s hand in his hair is a pleasant twinge of a counterpoint to the pleasure shocking through him, and his whole body shudders deeply when he goes stiff, every muscle tense. His vision whites out into starbursts, and he lets out a strangled noise against Yukimura’s chest when he spills. The knowledge that he’s _coming inside_ drags another several spurts out of him until he’s twitching and groaning, clinging to Yukimura for everything he’s worth and more besides.

 

If this is death, it’s a good death.

 

"…I've seen all eight million gods," Yukimura dazedly says after a long moment of just trying to _breathe_ , which is much, _much_ easier said than done. He groans, still shivering as he sinks down into the mattress, feeling rather akin to jello and happy about it. "Do it again." 

 

Sanada swallows hard. He takes a moment to hear his own heartbeat, then slowly nods. “All right.” He’s not ready _yet_ , and his cock starts shrinking in horror at the idea, but he’ll get there. For Yukimura, he’ll do anything.

 

He starts kissing a trail up Yukimura’s neck again, arms sliding around to hold him.

 

"Ahh, it was a joke, a joke…well, mostly." Yukimura laughs wearily, dragging his fingers through Sanada's hair as he lets his head roll back again. "I already look like I've been eaten alive, what's a little bit more?" 

 

“The scarf will hide it.” Maybe. Odd, how he’s gone from being mortified at the idea to being slightly rebellious about it. He just doesn’t _care_ , he finds, what other people think about their relationship. “Ah, you’re messy. Come to the bath, I’ll clean you.”

 

Yukimura drops a hand to his own neck briefly, thumbing one of the rapidly darkening hickeys there. "Idea #17 for making Seiichi wear his uniform properly: use him as a chew toy." He grins, stretching out a leg to gently poke Sanada with his toes. "Don't wanna move just yet. Maybe I like it; it's you that's inside me, after all." 

 

Sanada’s mouth curls in a rare, pleased smile. He dips a hand down, running his thumb over the sore hole, breath catching at the slow ooze of liquid. “Ah. That’s all right, then.”

 

Yukimura jerks and squirms, and sets his teeth to Sanada's shoulder in a soft bite. "It's a good thing you don't make that face very often. I'd have to beat people off of you with my racket." 

 

“You’re being absurd, Seiichi,” Sanada grumbles, flopping down onto Yukimura’s chest. “As if I smile for anyone else anyway.”

 

"You can smile at other people! Smiling is good for you." Yukimura threads his fingers back through Sanada's hair, slowly petting through it and down the back of his neck. "The problem is you're too handsome when you do it, so you'd get eaten alive."

 

“Bah. You say silly things.” Regardless of present silliness, Yukimura is unfairly attractive. Sanada gives him a long, slow kiss, then collapses back onto his chest. “Let me know if you really do want to do it again.”

 

"I always really want to do it again." Yukimura flops back, still thoroughly enjoying how he feels like jello. "Ahh, however you want, you're in top form tonight." 

 

“I have you wiggling under me and wanting me to do it again,” Sanada says dryly. “I’d think anyone could get it up again after that.” He pauses, then asks hesitantly, “If I wash it first, will you put it in your mouth? Ah, you don’t have to.”

 

"Don't follow things up with that, you can put it anywhere you want." Yukimura smirks slowly, and kneads at Sanada's leg with one foot before giving him a little kick. "So clean up and get back here." 

 

Sanada nods shortly, cock giving a little twitch at the idea. A minute in the bathroom (and a towel firmly chucked in the laundry basket) and he’s back, bending to give Yukimura a long slow kiss before settling into the small bed with him again. “How do you want to? Unless you want to do it on your knees again, but I think there should be a more comfortable way.”

 

"Mmnn…come up here. You can do the kneeling." Yukimura shifts, propping a pillow up behind his head before he paws at Sanada's hip, then makes a grab for his cock. "Gimme."

 

“Greedy.” _As usual._

 

And as usual, Sanada is helpless to resist anything Yukimura wants. He crawls up, kneeling on either side of Yukimura’s shoulders. Ah, yes, best not make a quip about his time in seiza preparing him. No matter how bad Yukimura’s sense of humor is, that’s just tasteless. 

 

Especially when his cock twitches again, starting to fill slowly, and he can rub the head of it over Yukimura’s lips instead.

 

Yukimura exhales a long, pleased breath, his eyes lidding as he tips his head forward, deliberately peering up through his lashes when he parts his lips to let his tongue drag over the head of Sanada's hardening cock. His hands lift, resting loosely over Sanada's thighs, and ah, he's definitely greedy, what with how quick his tongue is to catch  that first, sticky drop of precome before it can drip down his chin. 

 

Sanada’s hips cant forward, and he steadies himself with a slow, calming breath. This isn’t like sliding deep inside Yukimura; this is infinitely more delicate. Delicate on his part, to make certain not to choke Yukimura. Delicate on Yukimura’s part, because, well, teeth.

 

“That’s...too good,” he groans, already overwhelmed. In his defense, no one could be ready for Yukimura with a cock between his lips.

 

"Mmhm." Yukimura doesn't bother pulling back to say more than that. Better is sucking the head of Sanada's cock into his mouth, his eyes fluttering at the weight of him on his tongue. His head tips forward, just enough to take more and coax Sanada into not being _quite_ so restrained, especially when Yukimura drags his tongue against him and sucks on him, messy and obscenely slick. 

 

That’s it. Yukimura is just _trying_ to drive him mad now. 

 

(Really, he should have known that long ago.)

 

Sanada lets out a hiss through his teeth. He knows Yukimura better than anyone, and knows what he _wants_. Slowly, he lowers his guard, letting his hands card through silken hair, tugging his head down harder, faster, starting to set the pace. Yukimura’s mouth is a sin, and he uses it, stuffing his cock in that pretty mouth over and over again.

 

Yukimura can only imagine that one of these days, it's going to get them in _trouble_ , knowing one another so well. He inhales a ragged breath through his nose, his eyes rolling back when Sanada slides deep and he has to swallow hard and fast to keep from gagging. Ah, that shouldn't make his fingers and toes curl as much as it does, or make him squirm with his cock aching again between his legs. He groans low in his throat, sloppily, _hungrily_ sucking and lapping when he can, lending himself more and more to the pull of Sanada's hands and the shove of his hips that leaves his mouth full and lips slick and bruised. 

 

Yukimura just isn’t _fair_. 

 

He knows exactly what he’s doing, the minx, and Sanada can’t bring himself to care. He lurches forward, sliding in as deep as he comfortably can, hissing at the sudden sensation. “You—” He bites his lip, groaning. “You can take more than I thought you could.” Somehow, it’s a compliment.

 

Yukimura's rumbling moan in return is nicely muffled, his throat bobbing hard as he swallows around Sanada's cock. He's in deep enough that it makes Yukimura's eyes water, and he blinks hard, lashes wet when he looks up through them, _knowing_ he paints a lovely image of both demure and very, very sullied. 

 

And he knows exactly how much Sanada likes it, too.

 

Yukimura groans as his fingers paw their way to Sanada's hips, nails pressing in, mouth greedily sucking. _So keep making use of it._

 

If Yukimura didn’t look so _enthusiastic_ , Sanada would probably feel bad about this. 

 

As it is, he lets his hips move, a slow, urgent circle as he slides into Yukimura’s mouth. The drag of his tongue, hot and slick and wet, makes Sanada’s breath come out in a hiss, and his cock throbs hard between Yukimura’s lips. 

 

Swallowing hard, Sanada finds the willpower to pull back slightly, rubbing the slippery-sticky head against Yukimura’s lips. “Up to you,” he breathes. “Here, or I can put it in you again.”

 

Yukimura _squirms,_ his head falling back to better suck in a deep, albeit shaky breath. His tongue flicks out, tasting the sticky mess on his lips, and the heavy taste on his tongue makes his eyes roll back. "In me again," he breathes, _very_ decisively for how hoarse his voice is around the edges. "Right now, or I'm gonna climb on it myself." 

 

Sanada nods decisively. As in most things, they’re in agreement.

 

He climbs off of Yukimura, flipping him over and hiking up slender hips. He has to take a moment to stop, drinking in the smell of him, the sight of him splayed and wanting, and he drags his tongue across the now-familiar scar. “I won’t need anything, right?” he asks, rubbing a thumb over Yukimura’s probably-sore hole, feeling the lingering slickness. “Since there’s still so much inside,” he adds, rubbing the head of his cock over it, then pushing slowly inside, cursing under his breath at how good it feels.

 

Yukimura hisses and arches, hands curling down into the sheets when he wriggles back with a long, hitching sigh at being _filled_ again. "Want even more of you inside," he groans, twisting and reaching a hand back to claw at whatever part of Sanada he can reach, his nails leaving imprints at Sanada's hip. "Make me feel you--ahh--all day tomorrow, too--"

 

“Every time you move,” Sanada promises breathlessly, and surges up into Yukimura, until he’s entirely engulfed in wet, tight heat. He bends his mouth, letting his teeth scrape against the edge of that scar, pulling out slightly just to slam in harder. “Every time you _breathe_ , Seiichi—”

 

He groans, burying his head between Yukimura’s shoulderblades, yanking his hips back, back, back, needing the other man to _feel him_.

 

Yukimura can't think to strangle his whines behind his teeth or into the sheets, not when Sanada is in so _deep_ and pressed so close against him, all sleekness and solidness and heat and _perfection_. He trembles, knees splaying further apart on their own accord, his head tipping back in a ragged, broken gasp, his back arching sharply to better lend himself to every pull of Sanada's hands. 

 

" _God_ \--Gen…ah, _god_ \--" Not poetry, less than coherent, but it'll do, especially when Sanada's mouth on his skin is enough to make his eyes cross, never mind the way he moves inside, hard and slick and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , that's good. Yukimura whimpers and shoves his face down into the pillow, panting hard, snaking a hand down to his own cock, though it's pointless when the first slide of his own hand over it makes him jerk and gasp and spill without another thought, trembling and sagging into the mattress.

 

Sanada’s been close for ages, since Yukimura’s tongue swiped across the head of his cock. He lurches forward, hissing low between his teeth as Yukimura clenches down around him, squeezing tight and making him want to curse at the sudden _clench_ of it. 

 

He won’t be blamed, then, for not making this last as long as he might.

 

Sanada groans when he spills, mouthing hot kisses over Yukimura’s shoulders from behind, slamming home into the root and holding there for every urgent twitch inside of him. His eyes squeeze shut, and every muscle in his body is awash in a wave of pleasure so intense that his skin prickles, and he collapses, shuddering, on top of Yukimura.

 

Yukimura gives _up_ , and flops into an entirely melted heap into the mattress, still shivering when he nuzzles his face down into the pillow, wondering what it's like to breathe normally. His body still wants to twitch sporadically, especially when he can feel how much slicker inside he is, and ah, fuck, just thinking about it makes him _squirm_ and tell his cock to quit it and calm down because he just came _again_. 

 

"Mine," he sort of dazedly declares, tilting his head back to knock it against Sanada's, which is about as possessive of a gesture as he can manage when he feels like a blob.

 

Sanada nods dumbly, letting the hand gripping Yukimura’s hip relax, curling around him instead. “Nn. S’long as you want me.”

 

"Dumb. Keeping you forever." And maybe an extra day because Sanada is so comfortable to curl up with afterwards, too.

 

“Ah. I’ll have to change my school schedule, then.” Sounds wise enough.

 

"Let's quit," Yukimura sighs, eyes lidded as he thunks his head against Sanada's shoulder, splaying himself back against him. "Go and play pro tennis instead."

 

“Even when I’m sleepy I won’t let you talk that kind of nonsense.”

 

"Not nonsense. Quickly coming to conclusion that high school sucks." 

 

“You’re absurd. Enjoy living with me at least.”

 

"I enjoy that part a lot. Ah, let me roll over," Yukimura sighs out with a stretch, wincing as he twists in Sanada's arms, carefully wriggling away and then rolling back over to face him. "I'm just whining, so humor me. I'm not going to go pro until I graduate," he sighs, idly brushing his thumb over Sanada's collarbone. "But I still want to for sure after high school. My parents say they won't pay for anything unless I wait until after college, but…what's the point then? What am I going to go to college for anyway?"

 

Sanada lets his head fall back onto the pillow, brow slightly furrowed. “I wasn’t sure you were going to college. It never seemed like anything you cared about too much.” He looks over at Yukimura, thinking. “I wouldn’t feel right with my family’s name if I didn’t, though. It’s part of my future.”

 

A little shrug follows that. "I figured. It would be a waste for you not to." Yukimura slides a finger down Sanada's chest, sighing. "We'll have to get used to living apart again, though. That part isn't any good." 

 

Sanada’s jaw sets. “I can handle it. Besides,” he adds, nudging Yukimura’s shoulder, “it’ll give you somewhere to come home to when you’re off traveling the world. You’ll always have a place.”

 

Yukimura sticks his tongue out. "But I want you to play with me, too, at least at some point. I need actual competition. Or we could do doubles and make everyone cry." 

 

“You’re terrible at doubles.”

 

"Shh. I've never lost."

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow. “I’m _not_ going to stand stupidly next to the net again. I felt like an idiot.”

 

"Okay, fine. As a peace offering, we'll play doubles in a practice game against Shitenhouji, and you can actually hit the ball."

 

“This sounds,” Sanada remarks slowly, “like a very bad idea. I’m in.”

 

"Good boy. So you'll totally be in for playing doubles with me in an actual tournament, too, right?" If he smiles enough, Yukimura has been told there are dimples, and Sanada can never say no to dimples. 

 

Sanada wavers, then sighs. “If we win. Which we will. Fine.” Not as if he’s ever any good at saying no to Yukimura.

 

"Have I ever told you how perfect you are?" Yukimura sweetly wheedles, nuzzling up underneath Sanada's chin. "But really. My parents _did_ say it was okay for me to still do tournaments outside of school related things, so long as I don't fail chem again…ahh, let's do it, let's go win everything." 

 

“I like winning everything,” Sanada agrees, and rests his chin on Yukimura’s head. “And we will.” Because they do. Because it’s Yukimura, and it’s him, and damned if they won’t win every damned thing.


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

*One Year Ago*

 

_"It's nothing to cry over."_

 

Yukimura reminds himself of that later, echoing the very words he told Kirihara over and over in his mind. The match he lost replays in his mind over and over even more, from the burn in his legs and the stitch in his side from running desperately across the court, to the thud of the ball just before it blazed past him again and again and again.

 

If he thought he had a chance in the first place, he still wouldn't have cried.

 

He admits nothing to Sanada--says nothing to him for a solid two weeks after the match, actually, though the first week of that is for sleeping. His father is out of the country, but his mother is the one that scolds and dotes on him simultaneously, rousing him from what feels like the sleep of the dead to force enough food down his throat to keep him among the living. His sister clambers up into bed with him on occasion, or so Yukimura loosely perceives, and he slings an arm around her, using her as something like a plush toy. 

 

Yukimura _feels_ like death. Maybe death slightly warmed over, but mostly like death. 

 

The team probably _thinks_ him dead, or maybe they aren't thinking of him at all when they're at Yanagi's boarding house for an actual vacation. 

 

Maybe that's for the best.

 

(It's bullshit. He knows it.)

 

The second week after Nationals, when he pulls himself out of bed, he feels that _weakness_ in his legs all over again, proof of muscle atrophy that leaves him wobbling and opting for _sitting_. He wonders, exactly, how he managed to play a tennis match at all. _With spirit_ , he dryly reminds himself, and tries not to smack his rehab coach Sanada-style for talking to him like he's a four year old child. 

 

 _Sanada_. 

 

"I called him once, while you were hibernating," his mother says, obviously meaning well, but Yukimura scowls at her over his water bottle all the same. "Don't look at me like that, Seiichi. He was so _worried_ about you. Please call him."

 

"I will later."

 

Just to put later off to an even more future date, Yukimura pushes himself to the limit that day, his legs burning and lungs aching and the scar on his back so barely, barely healed _throbbing_. 

 

He sleeps the sleep of the dead again that night, and wakes up with a headache that burns and slices across his temples, reminding him of tennis balls that he just can't hit back. 

 

So he runs. 

 

He runs until his legs ache (a far shorter distance than used to cause that feeling), runs until he can feel his calves cramp and shake, runs until he can feel the lactic acid pumping through his muscles, leaving him bent over and gasping and regretting every single one of his life choices for the past month and a half--maybe for the past ten years.

 

For a few days, he regrets ever picking up a tennis racket at all as a child. "Maybe I should go to art school instead," he murmurs, flopped out on the couch in the living room, and his little sister laughs at him.

 

"You only ever draw the same things lately, so that's no good! People will get bored of you, Nii-chan." 

 

It isn't just _lately_ , considering he has piles of sketchbooks full of just his best friend. 

 

_Tennis is fun!_

 

_No, it's an all-out war!_

 

Yukimura figures it stopped being fun when he stopped being able to hold a racket, or even stand on his own two feet without help. 

 

His grip on the racket is still unsteady by the end of the week, and his focus on the ball far from perfect. It still hits true enough through the paper window coverings of Sanada's bedroom, and Yukimura considers himself accomplished when he remains on his own two feet after scaling the Sanada family estate's fence after nightfall, all for this. He looks like shit with his hair sweaty and plastered to his neck in the humid night air, feels like shit and prays his headache and chills will go away, but it's _Sanada_.

 

Sanada has already seen him at his worst, and then some. 

 

Why he hasn't come out here earlier is something Yukimura actually _does_ want to cry over, but doesn't. 

 

Sanada had been sleeping.

 

The second he hears a sound outside the window, he moves as quickly as a striking snake, grabbing a sword from its stand and whirling in one fluid motion, glinting blade pointed directly at the intruder’s throat.

 

The man is no more than a shadow, but after a second, the familiar breath pattern is enough to make him lower the sword immediately. “Se--Captain. Forgive me.”

 

He _misses_ the times he could look at this man’s face and not hate his own failure.

 

Funny story--tennis rackets don't make for good shields against swords. Yukimura thinks about that after the fact when he's a hairsbreadth from death, and sort of wryly is relieved that Sanada didn't slice through the damn thing on his way to Yukimura's throat. He _just_ had it restrung. "Do you often have _threatening_ people smacking tennis balls through your windows at night, or is this just your customary greeting nowadays? I know it's been awhile, but…" 

 

Ah, it would be nice to not feel so _awkward_ talking to Sanada.

 

Sanada sheathes his sword, setting it back on the stand. Only then does he notice the hole in the wall, and grimaces. He’ll be blamed for it, of course, which is only fair. “I was asleep,” he admits. 

 

Then he looks up and down Yukimura, brow furrowed. “Should you be out this late? You said your parents were worried.”

 

Yukimura beams up at him. "I told them I was going out for a run. That was… ah… four hours ago. I just ended up running here." It's fine. They're used to it at this point, and if they were _that_ worried, his phone would be blowing up. He shifts-- _not_ awkwardly, he tells himself--and tucks his racket underneath his arm. "If you don't want me here, I'll go back." 

 

“I didn’t…” 

 

Weeks ago, he’d have smiled, asked him to stay. His longing for that time is so strong it makes him want to vomit. “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to apologize again.” Not enough times. There will never be enough times.

 

"No."

 

Yukimura sighs, ignores how his legs keep trying to do that weird jello-sort-of-feeling-thing, and hauls himself up onto the wooden ledge outside of the window--a remarkable 20ish centimeters off the ground, mind--before making a solid grab for Sanada's arm to steady himself. "Can you like…pull me in a little, I'm still pretty much the most pathetic creature on the face of the earth. I think bowing at your feet is a better posture for apologizing to _you_ properly, anyway."

 

Sanada’s face is slightly horrified, but he lurches into action nonetheless, hauling Yukimura in and to his feet without a second’s hesitation. “You can’t, you’ve done nothing. I’m the one who failed you. No matter how I work my entire life, I’ll never repay that debt.”

 

"Stop," Yukimura sternly says, and grabs Sanada's face in his hands, "that's enough. See, this is one of those things I'd like to apologize for. The expectation and burden I put on you was far too much for you alone. And, well…" He smiles wryly. " _You_ didn't lose another match. Consider yourself redeemed." 

 

“You never put more of a burden on me than I wanted to take,” Sanada protests. Then he stops for a moment, frowning at the feel of the too-cold shaky fingers on his face. “Seiichi--you’re shivering.” The dread comes on him suddenly--that Yukimura isn’t healed at all, that he’s relapsing, that it’s going to happen again, all the collapsing, the shivering, the odd jerky movements, the wasting away...

 

"I just ran 10 kilometers and clawed my way up your stupidly tall fence, I'm tired." His obnoxious rehab coach would be yelling at him. His parents, too, if they knew. Yukimura figures it's fine, because he can actually _do it_ without collapsing. Ah, but…sitting. "Sitting," he admits all the same, "might be good."

 

“There aren’t any chairs,” Sanada reminds him, and urges Yukimura over to his futon, stopping to light a small lamp. “I don’t care if you sit cross-legged, though.” _As long as you don’t get hurt again. As long as I don’t lose you again._ “You didn’t have to climb. I’d have let you in if you called me.”

 

"…Would've been weird." It comes out a bit petulantly, and Yukimura flops down, suddenly unable to be apologetic about his weakness when even the floor feels good, so long as his legs are out from underneath him. He sighs, sits up for a moment longer, then simply lets himself fall backwards, flat onto his back. "I really am sorry, Genichirou. You, of all people…I shouldn't have been so awful to." 

 

“But you _weren’t_ awful.” 

 

Even as he says the words, something cold and hurt inside him starts to slowly warm at the edges--painful, the way warming frostbitten hands at last is painful. There’s little as potent as _Yukimura doesn’t hate me after all_ , it seems. 

 

“I deserved it,” he says instead, kneeling next to Yukimura. “I should never have lost the regionals. I’ll never forgive myself.”

 

"That wasn't good," Yukimura quietly agrees, "but _you_ didn't lose the nationals."

 

He slowly rolls onto his side, the dull throbbing ache in his back reminding him that lying like that on a hard surface doesn't work very well. "I was awful. Being sick doesn't excuse it. I wasn't myself and I treated you like a pet dog rather than my friend, so let me apologize properly already." 

 

Sanada gives himself a moment to absorb that, really absorb it, and enjoy the way it makes him thaw even more. Then he leans forward, kneeling down until he can rest his forehead against Yukimura’s. “That you still consider me your friend after everything...that’s enough for me. I won’t fail you again.” He swallows around a lump in his throat, and his voice is a bit rough when he says, “Please don’t blame yourself. They were stronger than they should have been, and you had...trials. Rikkai hasn’t lost faith in its captain.”

 

"Genichirou--I'm still really sorry." It doesn't matter that the entire week of nationals is something of a blur (he kind of wishes he had those nice painkillers again) and that he only periphally recalls being a total ass. It still leaves a pit in his stomach which only deepens, and Yukimura swallows, shifting his weight forward to bump his nose against Sanada's. "I wasn't much of a captain, win or lose. I don't know how any of you could still _want me_ as captain, after everything I asked of all of you."

 

Tears start to burn Sanada’s eyes, the way Yukimura had always been good at engineering when they’d been little. He blinks them back now, upset more than anything at hearing Yukimura doubt himself, when Sanada never has. “You’ll always be Rikkai’s captain. There isn’t a player on the team who wouldn’t want you. We learned that--there’s no team worth playing for without you. You’re m--our inspiration.”

 

The laugh that escapes him is wet, and Yukimura hates it. In a way, he was really hoping to hear that Sanada was upset with him, that Sanada thought he should resign, that he should give it up, because _if he can't guarantee a victory for them, who can?_ "You're all masochists. Ah, damn it, I didn't come here to cry at you." He rolls back onto his back, no matter how it hurts, and drops an arm over his eyes, forcing back the hiccuping heave of his chest. "After everything I harped at all of you…I still lost. I _knew_ I was going to lose, and I didn't say a thing. I put you all through hell for nothing."

 

Sanada can’t handle being higher up than Yukimura, so he drops down to his back as well, laying on the floor to give the other man the futon. “It didn’t make sense, that you could win,” he admits, “after being in the hospital for eight months, but…” He sighs, rubbing at his face. “You have a way about you. It made us believe. We needed that.”

 

"Dumb masochists," Yukimura dimly replies, and he's angrier by the minute that his sniffle turns into another, hiccuping breath. "…I wanted to win so badly," he hoarsely mumbles, and he swings his arm away from his face to grab at one of Sanada's hands, his own wet and clammy. "When I started playing him, I thought for a minute…maybe I can pull this off. Then he took a game and then another and I've never hated someone so much in my life and that's _stupid_ , isn't it? It's not his fault. It's mine."

 

“Then he says that stupid little phrase,” Sanada says gloomily, lost in a world of his own recollection of fighting the brat. “Like you’re the one that’s been _arrogant_ to play him. Like he wants you not just beaten, but _defeated_.” He shakes his head, swallowing bitterly. He could have handled the humiliation, had handled it, when it was him.

 

When it was Yukimura, defying death and constant weakness and a year’s worth of pain to even stand up at the match, only to be mocked by a 12-year-old…

 

“It just makes me sick. I still don’t know how he beat me. Invented a new drive, I suppose.”

 

"How was splitting a ball in half _legal?_ " Yukimura mutters, sniffling again and slowly curling himself into a ball, listing off of the futon to shove his face into Sanada's neck. He breathes in deep, no matter how shakily. "Shouldn't have hit that. Should have just kept serving the ball right into his face, maybe he would have gotten a concussion. Ah, tell me to stop, I'm turning into Akaya."

 

Sanada takes Yukimura’s face firmly in his hands, then leans down (heart thudding _this isn’t a good idea_ ) and kisses him, just once, a soft brush of lips. “It’s the past. We’ve made reparations. We don’t need to dwell on it.” _Thank god the lights are low enough he can’t see me blush._

 

Well, that's it. There's no helping it now.

 

Yukimura prides himself on being dreadful and awful and bitchy for 99% of the past 10 months, which is one hell of a lot better than the 1% of the time where he's felt so disgustingly pathetic and useless that there's nothing better to do than break down into a heap. Now, it isn't feeling _pathetic_ that breaks the proverbial dam, but rather it's _Sanada_ telling him that it's fine, that it doesn't _matter_ , that he still believes in him, all while he's kissing him for the first time in…is it five weeks now? Longer, because he was a wretch directly after his surgery, too, and before they certainly didn't have time to themselves long enough for even a single kiss and who the hell would want to kiss a _corpse_ , anyway--

 

"S…sorry--" The sob that wells up this time doesn't stop, and Yukimura's face is already soaking wet when he shoves it back into Sanada's neck, shoulders heaving with every stupid, painful inhale. _I'm really sorry, you're right, it's just so frustrating._

 

This is the Yukimura Sanada had been expecting to see. He’d expected it every day in the hospital, but the man had never crumbled, never crumpled like this. He’d always been quiet, determined, sometimes extremely acidic, but Sanada had never seen him weep.

 

(He’d seen him shaking and seizing, drooling and bleeding from his nose a couple times, but Yukimura had made him swear never to mention it again. Sanada doesn’t know why, when it’s made Yukimura the bravest man he’s ever known, even when he was 13.)

 

“It’s fine,” he murmurs again, and one arm snakes around the other boy’s waist to pull him close, the other sliding gently through his hair. “It’ll be _fine_.”

 

"It's _n-not_." It is, probably. Sanada's right, he usually is. Right now, though, _nothing_ feels fine. Yukimura huffs and curls into a tight ball against Sanada's chest, shivering with every sob. "I want to quit." He doesn't, not _really_ , but it feels good to throw something away with so much finality in his words. "They k-keep saying I'm never going to be the same as before, so what's the _point_." 

 

“They’re _wrong_.” Sanada tries to put every bit of his belief, every bit of his conviction in Yukimura’s courage, his excellence, his utter determination into the words. “They don’t know half of what you are or what you can do.” He’s never been good with words, but for Yukimura, he can try. “I do.”

 

" _I_ don't even know what I am or what I can do anymore. I'm not…people _don't_ come back from these kinds of things. Not really." Yukimura shudders, and folds his arms up between them, fisting his hands up into Sanada's robe. "If I don't get any better, then you need to tell me just to stop."

 

“You did.” 

 

Sanada hesitates, then presses a kiss to Yukimura’s forehead. That’s probably allowed, he thinks. “You came back. We didn’t doubt it, even when they told us…”

 

The doctors had told them that they’d never really have their captain back. It hadn’t seemed real. Then he’d walked onto the court, jersey on his shoulders, back straight, head held high with that quiet assumption of victory, and their hearts had soared so high….

 

They still haven’t really come down yet.

 

“It was just one game. We’ve all dropped one at some point.”

 

 _Not me. Not until Echizen Ryouma._ But that's not the point, either. "The game doesn't even matter." Yukimura sniffles and rubs his face against Sanada's chest. "It's…nothing feels right, still. I _know_ that it'll take time, don't tell me that, everyone else does. I just don't even feel like playing."

 

“Then don’t play.”

 

It sounds easy, to Sanada. His arms tighten around Yukimura, and he shrugs. “You don’t owe anything to anyone. Nationals are over. You can start high school any way you want, you know. You can be the captain of the cricket club if you want. Or nothing at all, and focus on your art.”

 

"Don't wanna." It sounds bratty and ridiculous and Yukimura doesn't care at all. He wonders if he can tuck himself up into Sanada's clothes and hide there. Maybe. Possibly. Worth a shot, if he felt like moving beyond plastering himself to Sanada's chest. "Still have the whole school year to get through until high school. I'm not coming back for another month, probably, just so you know," he sighs, and paws at Sanada's sleeve to use it to wipe his eyes. "Rikkai doesn't want a walking liability, and I still have to keep going back to the hospital every week. I don't feel like _people'ing_ right now, either, so it's fine." That's a technical term.

 

“Then don’t.” Sanada’s face twitches, and he can’t help a soft question. “Will you...I mean, if you’re not at school does that mean you won’t be coming to see...anyone?”

 

That brings about a wet laugh. _Said with the assumption they want to see me, the captain that lost their national championship and fell Rikkai's 15 year reign in the Kantou._ Ah, he needs to stop that. "Maybe I'll come by so you can slap me in front of all of them."

 

“Don’t be ridiculous! I can’t slap you.” He had, once. He’d been angry, furious, sick with fear and the worry that Yukimura was _not all right_ , and he’d been right. At least it had smacked Yukimura into finally letting the doctors perform those tests. “You’re my captain. You should be the one administering justice.”

 

"Why? You didn't lose your match." Yukimura peers up at him, sniffling a little again. "Slap Bunta and Jackal and Niou and me, we all lost." 

 

Sanada opens his mouth to protest, and remembers.

 

_“Sanada-fukubuchou is hard on us, but he’s hard on himself, too, so it’s fair.”_

 

_“Sanada-fukubuchou is hard on everyone the same, that’s why it’s okay.”_

 

He grimaces. “If you want me to. That’s what we did after Kantou, too. At least Akaya didn’t lose again, I don’t want to see him cry again.”

 

"Of course he wouldn't lose. That was the whole point in letting him play doubles with Yanagi." Yukimura sighs, and flops his forehead down against Sanada's shoulder. "I'll try not to cry when you hit me this time. Must be where Akaya gets it from. Everything else is from you, though." 

 

“The tongue thing is from you.”

 

"Absolutely not. But his high blood pressure is yours." 

 

“The cruelty is from you. Also the urge to paint, gruesome as it is.”

 

"Mmnn, I'll give you that. Though I don't like red very much. He's noisy like you."

 

“He has your seaweed hair.”

 

"Rude. My hair isn't that kind of wavy." Yukimura pauses, and frowns at a strand of it. "Okay, maybe when it's this sweaty. I'm cutting it off again soon though."

 

Sanada nudges his head against Yukimura’s. “You look good with short hair. Your mom’s going to be mad, though.”

 

"My dad will be happy. Ahh, I've wanted to lop it off for months, she can indulge me this much." Yukimura nudges his head back against Sanada's. "Do you think Akaya will try and wear his jersey on his shoulders when he's captain?" 

 

“Definitely,” Sanada says without hesitation. “I always slap him when he tries to use _da zo_ , though.” [Author's Note 3]

 

"Oh, that's for the best. He's a baby still, he doesn't need to talk like that." Never mind that Kirihara is only a few months his junior.

 

“He’ll be in charge next year. God help Rikkai,” Sanada mutters.

 

"It'll be fine! Ah, he needs a better nickname, though. 'Second Year Ace' is awful and soon-to-be obsolete." 

 

“Red Demon,” Sanada suggests immediately. “Though you’re trying to train that out of him, so perhaps not.”

 

Yukimura scrunches up his nose. "Mm, none of that. He'll think it's fine to continue delivering bloody packages to my feet." 

 

“It means he likes you. Like a cat with lizards.”

 

"…But isn't he kind of the lizard? With that tongue thing…"

 

“Niou’s definitely the lizard.” Sanada isn’t sure how, but he’s pretty sure about this one.

 

"Hmm. Sounds about right." Yukimura pauses, then looks worried. "Does that mean Akaya is going to deliver him bloody to my doorstep? I don't want that."

 

“Nah, he’ll just detach his tail and run away. I’ve yet to see Akaya get the better of him.”

 

"Good. I was worried Niou lost his touch while I was away." Yukimura nudges his head up underneath Sanada's chin. "On a scale from 1 to 10, how weird will your parents think it is if I'm here in the morning and passed out on your floor?"

 

“They’ll probably be relieved,” Sanada says after a moment’s thought. “They’ve missed you, too. Father asks about you all the time.”

 

"Really?" It's a relief to hear, sometimes, that Sanada's parents don't think of him as _that weird artsy kid that keeps dragging their son down a depraved road of tennis_. They're so _traditional_ at times that Yukimura finds himself oft thrown for a loop…and he's known _Sanada_ for years and years. "Then…if you don't mind, I'd rather not run another 10 kilometers tonight. And you're comfortable."

 

At the idea that Yukimura will be _sharing his futon_ , Sanada blushes. It’s not as if they’ve never done it before, but he has significantly more wet dreams now than he had the last time. They’re grown up now, not kids cuddled under the same blanket, but he can pretend. 

 

He nods, tugging his blanket up over both of them. “Sorry there’s no heat.”

 

"You're warm, so it's fine." He's not about to complain about it now, not when he can curl up with Sanada for the first time in what feels like _forever_ , and it might as well be, after months and months. Yukimura sighs, shutting his eyes as he burrows himself close. "Consider my hipbones stabbing you as revenge for your sword being pointed at me earlier."

 

“You could have _called_ ,” Sanada says again, plaintively. He has no hope of actually convincing Yukimura of pretty much anything. He never has. He reaches over and turns off the light, snuggling close, and tries not to get hard from the smell of Yukimura’s hair.

 

"It would've been weird." Yukimura falls silent for a minute, curled up as warm and content as he can be in Sanada's arms, and quietly murmurs into his neck: "Thank you." 

 

The cold place in Sanada warms over, and he relaxes somewhat. “Thanks for coming back to me.”

 

Yukimura's lips press a slow, soft kiss to Sanada's neck. _Love you more than anything else in the world._ "Can't stay away." _Or you can't beat me off with a stick, take your pick._

 

“I—” 

 

Sanada isn’t sure if he should say it, and it sticks in his throat besides. “I wasn’t sure.” Better to say that, rather than _I thought you were going to die_ or _I thought you hated me for losing._

 

"I was just stupid. And last week, really sleepy, which is why I didn't come by earlier. Like…22 hours a day sleepy, it was gross." Yukimura's eyes slide shut. "Mom had this really old movie on at some point--some feudal samurai thing, I think. The way they said 'I love you' back then…' _aishitemasu_.' It sounded like the way you'd say it, if you ever said it." [Author's Note 4]

 

Sanada is suddenly glad the lights are off, what with how pink his ears turn. “I’d say it,” he mutters, burying his head into a pillow. “But I thought you’d laugh at me.”

 

"You'd probably make me blush, just like you are." It's an educated guess, at any rate. Yukimura nuzzles his face into Sanada's neck. "But I wouldn't laugh."

 

Sanada swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry. He _wants_ to, even if this is a little...sudden. Instead, he mutters, “I was going to after Nationals. What...what we talked about. When you...tried, and I…” If he blushes any more, Yukimura will be able to feel the heat.

 

"Hey." Yukimura lifts a hand, and gently pokes Sanada's cheek. Or at least in the vicinity of it, it's dark and he's not the most coordinated person in the world right then. "It's okay. You don't have to say it. Or do anything else, either." He smiles, even if Sanada can't see it. "I'm _definitely_ not going to die, so there's no rush. Don't pop a blood vessel."

 

Sanada ducks his head, embarrassed. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he says softly, squeezing his eyes shut in case Yukimura tries to poke them again. “I just...want it to be right.” Ah, he doesn’t want to feel like this much of a blushing maiden.

 

"Mm, me, too. So it's fine." Yukimura _does_ laugh when he adds: "And okay, let's be honest here--if you _kiss me_ too many times, I might pass out. Not to discourage you or anything, but just saying…this is good for right now. I'm mostly glad you still _want_ to kiss me." 

 

“I always want to kiss you,” Sanada mumbles. “Don’t be dumb. Ugh, go to bed already, I’m saying embarrassing things.” And he’s too worried about Yukimura for good sleep, so he’ll probably be awake and monitoring his heartbeat like some kind of living EKG.

 

"Okay, _Dad_. Kiss me good-night at least." 

 

“Don’t pass out,” Sanada warns, and bends to brush his lips lightly against Yukimura’s.

 

Ah.

 

Well.

 

So much for not getting hard sleeping next to him.

 

Sanada keeps his hips back, and tries to fall asleep. “Good night, Seiichi.”

 

Relentlessly, Yukimura curls up close, and considers it all very much a compliment. "Good night, Genichirou." 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Niou isn’t exactly “on time” for practice, but time is sort of for people that don’t run fast enough to escape Sanada’s slap. Besides, he’s had a rough night.

 

“Oi, Buchou,” he calls amiably, vaulting the gate with one hand on the fence. The sun is brighter than he likes, and he squints against it, feeling his muscles protest after all the previous night’s activity. The scratches on his face and arms don’t feel too great, either. “I’m gonna miss practice this morning, but I’ll let you copy off my work in Chem, yeah?”

 

He pitches his voice perfectly so it carries to Yukimura by the gate, but not Sanada running drills with Akaya, saying something about _next year, this is how you strike fear into the hearts of those who follow you._

 

For a minute, Yukimura thinks maybe Sanada is right. Maybe he is a little too easy on Niou, if he immediately shows up and assumes he's allowed to just leave. 

 

…Then again, one whiff of him makes Yukimura rethink his urge to use any sort of authority.

 

"Ah…" Yukimura manages, stepping away to get at least marginally upwind of him. "Niou--" Nope, he can't do it. Not when-- "Okay, but you definitely smell like cat piss." What the hell, actually. 

 

Niou shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “Got into a fight with a cat, in an underpass last night.”

 

"… _Why?_ " 

 

“Territorial dispute,” Niou says, as if that explains everything.

 

Yukimura blinks back at him before he just sighs. What else is there to do with Niou sometimes, anyway, except _sigh_. "Can you like…go and change at least? And _don't_ leave your clothes in the clubroom, I don't want it reeking courtesy of your…territorial dispute. Also, if you're late for this afternoon's practice match, it's Sanada you're dealing with." 

 

Niou mutters something like “You should hear what the _other_ guy smells like,” and peels away with a one-handed wave. “Later, boss.” 

 

It doesn’t take much time to change and drop his clothes off in the laundry. By the time he gets out, the idea of going to P.E. first thing under the bright sun makes him sort of nauseous. He boards a train to Tokyo instead, slouching down in his seat with a hat covering his eyes with blessed darkness. Every time the train stops, he looks up, hoping to see something interesting enough to lure him off the train.

 

Eventually his stomach gets the better of him, and a takoyaki stand outside one of the stops makes him bolt for the exit. 

 

Once his stomach is reasonably full, he wanders for a bit, hands in his pockets, until something else catches his attention. 

 

**First Ever Curling High School Tournament You Can Attend**

 

It’s not a very enthusiastic sign, and it was obviously hand-lettered. Niou looks at his options for the day, shrugs, and turns into the appointed gymnasium.

 

Fuji _knew_ the new sign would help. Obviously, the last time, not mentioning that everyone _can attend_ was a poor life choice (no one attended).

 

That being said, it isn't much of a tournament, not when the 'team' from Okinawa (some third year that said he'd probably come) doesn't show, and Fuji is fairly certain they forfeited by hopping on a different train to each lunch in another part of Tokyo instead. Or maybe they just didn't bother coming at all. Ah, well. A win is a win. Undefeated he shall remain.

 

Except that isn't satisfying at all, not like in _tennis_ , when occasionally he'd run across an opponent that he actually felt like he could test himself against--

 

It's actually kind of freaky, actually, to look up from where he sits texting on the bleachers and see one of the ghost-apparents of his past. Fuji blinks, and idly checks the clock. Hmm. No, Azobu, even for a weird all-boys school, is definitely still in session. "…Niou-kun?" 

 

Maybe he'll turn into…someone interesting. That's still a thing, right? God, maybe that sign really was a great idea.

 

“Yo.” 

 

Niou looks around the empty gym, idly scratching the back of his head. “Am I in the wrong place? I thought I could attend. Never seen a curling match. Oh, hey, are those the uniforms?” They look sort of...hand-painted. By the same hand that did the sign, he bets. Ah, there’s a smudge of something on Fuji’s hand that may or may not be paint.

 

"Oh, this is it," Fuji cheerfully supplies, tucking his phone away as he hops to his feet. "It's just, you know. Not many high schools have curling teams, apparently! I'm the founder and captain and ace of mine. _Undefeated_ ace," he swiftly clarifies, "because Okinawa's champion team decided to forfeit." Because he strikes fear into their hearts, no doubt. That's definitely the reason he'll go with for now. 

 

Niou’s eyebrow raises. “We don’t have a curling team at Azobu. How do you do it? Do you get out of school and stuff?”

 

"Considering I'm also the coach, and the club advisor doesn't really care!" That is definitely a perk, especially when school is boring and he needs more than occasional relief from Eiji's nonstop chatter. "Ah, but there aren't many matches…" Fuji says wistfully. "A shame, because it's really quite fun; it's basically just seeing who can slide a stone closest to a tee, but there's a lot of strategy involved, too. If someone else made another team, we could have matches all the _time_." 

 

“During school?” Niou presses. Fuji doesn’t seem to be quite grasping the most important part of his questioning. “It doesn’t take time away from your tennis matches, right?” If he could just skip out during school by shoving a rock towards a tree or whatever, school would get a lot more fun. It’s one of those things that’s fonder for the absence, he’s found. Of course, if he misses any more tennis practice, he’ll start having to camouflage himself just to avoid Sanada’s backhand.

 

Fuji blinks back at him levelly. "Well, I don't play tennis anymore, so I wouldn't know about that part…but I definitely do get out of class for this, yes. I imagine it might be different at your school, though, depending on your grades." 

 

“Ah, okay.” Niou squats down, looking at the court more closely. “Can you walk me through the rules?”

 

"Sure!" This is a hell of a lot more than Eiji wants to hear about, at least. Fuji supposes he can't blame him, tennis _is_ a lot more interesting. " _Technically_ , you're supposed to have two teams of four playing against one another. You alternate until each team has curled two stones, with one person throwing, two people helping to guide it around obstacles, and another person giving strategy to the thrower…ah, but modified for a single person, you just do all of that yourself." 

 

He gives one of the stones an idle prod with his foot. "It's like playing a game of chess, but…trying to get the stone closest to the goal at the end. In other words, I like it because no one else plays it and beats me. Are you thinking of quitting tennis or something, too? It seemed like Rikkai deliberately stuck together all the way to Azobu, so that would be surprising." 

 

Niou looks down the court, interested, and grabs one of the weird stick things. “Nah, joining the tennis team at Rikkai is pretty much like joining the yakuza. I can quit, but I’ll never get into an onsen, if you know what I mean. Is this how I hit the rock? Can it be any rock?”

 

"Mmmm, special curling rocks in gameplay only, though it used to be played by fat rich people that had frozen lakes in wintertime," Fuji mildly supplies. "Hit it just like that--if we ever play on real ice, the rough side is better because it's slick and fast, but everyone tends to get mad if we used that on the gym floors, so whatever. I think it would be nice leaving giant scratch marks that prove our worth." 

 

“That would make everyone accept us as a real team,” Niou muses. Odd, how fast being against the rest of the world can confer companionship. War makes strange bedfellows indeed. “Hey, if fat people did it, it can’t be that hard. I’ll be your opponent, let’s have a game. You can sign a note for me for school later.”

 

"…What are _you_ avoiding today?" Fuji can't help but tease, dropping the act for .05 seconds even as he grabs his own broom. "Not that I'm unhappy about having an opponent, but…ah, are those cat scratches? My cacti attack me sometimes. Especially Tezuka." 

 

Niou scratches absently at the scratches on the back of his arm. “Territorial dispute. I won.”

 

Fuji nods sagely. "At least my cacti don't encroach on my territory. Very well, shall we? I'll go first and we can make this a long, pleasant game in order to avoid all of our responsibilities." 

 

Niou nods, then hesitates. “Ah. I don’t know any curling greats. Who should I try and be? Are there any fabulous curlers?”

 

"You know, I have no idea. I think it's an Olympic sport…hm. I wonder if Eiji knows any fabulous curlers."

 

Niou sighs. “I guess I can learn the basics before I try illusions. It’s got to be harder with your opponent watching the rock instead of you, anyway. Okay, here I go!”

 

Eiji doesn't know any fabulous curlers, which Fuji thinks is a little rude, and he says as much between turns and texting Eiji about the issue. Friends should take interest in their _friends'_ interests, shouldn't they? Fuji sure as hell doesn't give a damn about pop music, but he knows every single one of Eiji's idol bands by heart at this point. 

 

Either way, curling _does_ take awhile when played by only a single person, and it isn't until much, much later that Fuji hears the repeated, seemingly angrier-by-the-minute buzzes of a cellphone that isn't his own. "Hmm. Is that you? I suppose it _is_ getting late." Too bad one doesn't work up a _sweat_ while curling. It's a much more soothing sport.

 

Niou looks down at his phone, and curses viciously when he sees the time. “Don’t suppose you have a car? Shit, I’m going to be _so_ late, fuck, I’m gonna get slapped.”

 

"Slapped?" That sounds intriguing. Fuji's head tilts contemplatively. "My sister was going to pick me up. She'd probably drive you wherever, but she's a little odd. She might try and give you a tarot reading."  

 

Niou blinks. “Is she hot? I mean, will she get me there faster than the train?”

 

Fuji smiles back serenely, entirely unfazed. "She will eat you. But yes and yes, she's probably already here and waiting. Is this a tennis thing?" 

 

“Yeah, we’ve got a practice game against Shitenhouji, Buchou’s putting me in singles for some stupid reason.” Niou trots along at Fuji’s side, only slightly repentant. “You can come watch, if you want. Buchou and Fukubuchou are going to die, they have terrible senses of humor.”

 

"Ahh, Shitenhouji? I haven't seen them in forever…I guess most of them _were_ third years, so that must be a nice high school team," Fuji muses, leading the way out of the gymnasium. He almost wants to care. Almost. It's a little easier, thinking about other teams and their potential successes and failures.

 

As expected, his sister awaits in her showy, sporty little red car, beaming as she waves out of the window. "Neesan," he cheerfully greets. "This is Niou-kun--"

 

"Aren't _you_ cute? Shuusuke, you always have the cutest friends," Yumiko gushes in greeting, twisting in her seat to get a good look at him. "Is he coming home with us?"

 

"Actually, do you think you can beat the train to Azobu High? He has a match." Fuji slides into the backseat and leaves the door open for Niou afterwards, knowing better than to try and dislodge his sister's purse from its treasured passenger seat in the front. 

 

"Are you going to play?" 

 

"It isn't _my_ match, Neesan." 

 

"Mmmm, I suppose it's fine. Niou-kun, was it? Do you have a girlfriend? You have nice hands, you should let me do a palm reading for you sometime."

 

Fuji sighs, and resigns himself to this, too.

 

Niou’s more than intrigued by this unexpected bombshell, and his eyes aren’t _quite_ gentlemanly in their focus when he slides into the seat next to Fuji. “Uh...yeah, sure! You can see my hands whenever you want.”

 

He leans over to Fuji, and whispers, “Shit, is your whole family as hot as the two of you?”

 

Fuji's eyes glint at that. "My little brother is more oft referred to as 'cute', though I find that more appealing, personally." 

 

"Azobu High, Azobu High…isn't that an all boys school? My, that must be _boring_." 

 

Niou grins. “Not like we can’t see girls after school, you know. I go to a lot of night clubs. You should come with me some time, it’ll be cool.”

 

Yumiko laughs at that. "Aren't I a little old for you, Niou-kun?" she teases over her shoulder as she peels onto the road. "I bet you have a ton of pretty girlfriends already…mm, though it _has_ been awhile since I've been out--"

 

"Neesan, really."

 

"Oh, shh, at least I don't sulk over cacti all day. You're going to get fat if you don't start playing tennis again, Shuusuke."

 

Fuji, for once, regrets everything.

 

Niou throws an arm around Fuji’s shoulders. “Don’t feel left out, you can come too. Tomorrow night there’s an open mic night at one place I know in Shinjuku, the owner lets me in for free if I do my impressions.”

 

"Ah…pass," Fuji sweetly replies, lifting Niou's arm delicately off of his shoulder between two fingers. "After seeing some of your _impressions_ first hand, they're a little…"

 

"Oh, no, we're definitely going to do that. Shuusuke, you need to get out more! Maybe Yuu-chan, too."

 

"He'll hate you, Neesan."

 

"Not if I feed him first!" 

 

Yuuta is definitely that impressionable. It worked for Mizuki, after all. Fuji heaves a sigh in defeat. "Well, I suppose I don't have plans…" _And I'm something of a masochist, besides._  

 

Niou checks the clock. Ah, well, at least by being in singles he has at least until the end of the doubles game before he’s in actual trouble. “Then we’re going, cool. Uh, it usually goes really late, I guess.” His eyes flash as he looks down a bit at Fuji--ah, he’s so _short_. “You okay with staying up late?”

 

"Sleep is for the weak," Fuji hums, his own eyes lidding.

 

"Shuusuke, so cool." 

 

"Thanks, Neesan, I've been practicing. Ah, right lane, right--"

 

"Whoops, going. Hmmm, Shuu-chan, maybe you would've done better at an all boys school…"

 

"Don't be weird, Neesan." Fuji glances over to Niou. "Please ignore most of what comes out of her mouth, especially if she flirts with you." 

 

“I never ignore someone who flirts with me,” Niou says, leaning back against the backseat of the (admittedly awesome) car. “All-boys schools are awesome. No one’s concerned about looking cool for girls, so everyone is a lot more genuine. It makes them _way_ easier to fool.”

 

"Oh, really? Sounds like you would definitely fit in, Shuusuke." 

 

"I'd rather go to school overseas if I'm going to transfer. Ahh, also, I don't think Niou-kun's captain would like me very much, if I ever decided to play tennis again…"

 

Niou’s head tilts. “So, did you just get bored? Or was there no one good enough to challenge you?”

 

"Well," Fuji replies with a little smile, "considering how I thoroughly trounced you, and you were playing at being Tezuka _and_ Shiraishi…"

 

"We're here!" Yumiko announces, pulling a sharp left into the school grounds. "Shuusuke, you're staying, right?"

 

"I--" 

 

"Out with you, be sociable! I'll pick you up later, just give me a call!" 

 

Fuji decides not to remind her that he _socializes_ with a hyperactive cat-person and his neurotic boyfriend on a daily basis, and instead sighs, sheds his curling 'uniform' jacket in the backseat, and gets out. 

 

Niou grabs Fuji’s arm, tugging him quickly towards the courts. “Maybe they won’t yell at me as much if you’re here,” he mutters. It had worked sometimes with his parents, bringing home a friend whenever he’d also brought home a report card. Just to be on the safe side, he enters the side of the court furthest away from Sanada, who’s currently watching a match between a nervous Marui and a large bald man.

 

“Yo, Buchou,” Niou says quietly, sliding into his seat next to Yukimura. “What’d I miss?”

 

The look Yukimura gives him is positively frosty. "You'll be missing your regular jersey if you keep being late to everything. I even _reminded…_ " He blinks, suddenly catching sight of Fuji, and has to shake off the urge to stare in confusion because really, what the hell. His mind flips through a few scenarios as to why Fuji could be with Niou, all increasingly…odd. "…Hello, Fuji."

 

"Hello, Yukimura-kun," Fuji cheerfully greets, and bows apologetically. "You look well. Please blame my sister and I for Niou-kun's tardiness, she's not a very good driver and I insisted on it in the first place." 

 

"Ah." Bizarre. Not running any more scenarios now. "Niou, just…go warm up, you're in Singles 2 after Sanada and I play doubles. If you play well, I won't let him slap you."

 

Fuji beams up at Niou. _And now you owe me._

 

Niou feels a cold chill crawl up his spine. Weird. 

 

“No worries, boss. Who am I playing, anyway? Uh, Fuji can stay, right? He’s not getting information on anyone, he doesn’t play anymore.”

 

Yukimura waves a dismissive hand. "Yes, it's fine. And you're playing Shiraishi, so play _well_."

 

Fuji whistles underneath his breath, and rather thoroughly appreciates what he can only assume is Yukimura's morbid sense of humor.

 

Niou hops down, trotting over to the empty side of the court to warm up. There’s a minor detour to his tennis bag, which fortunately has most of his best wigs in it. He stuffs a few in his pockets, not sure which one he’ll need. Shiraishi’s a tough cookie, he’ll be odd to crack. Maybe…

 

“Game and match, Azobu Private High! Six games to four!”

 

"I'm going to die," Marui moans as he all but collapses into the bleachers, huddling himself up into a ball and shivering. "Buchooou, _why_ \--"

 

"But you won! So it's fine," Yukimura soothingly tells him, not quite looking up from where he rapidly is texting on his phone. "Someone, feed him."

 

Marui whimpers a little. Fuji wonders how badly Eiji would kill to watch this entire thing.

 

Jackal provides a small cooler, stocked to the brim with “crash foods,” and passes it over without a word. 

 

Sanada tightens the strap of his hat, making certain it won’t fall off. “This doubles pair is the kind that like to overthink everything,” he says to Yukimura as they take the court. “They’re apparently comedians. Shouldn’t be a problem for us.”

 

“OoooOOOOOoohhh,” a voice comes from the other side of the court. “Hold me, help me, he’s _cuuuuute_!”

 

"You're certain?" Yukimura mildly replies, lips twitching into a smirk as he gives Sanada's back a swat with his racket before leaving his phone behind on the bench. "You're _hardly_ immune to flattery." 

 

"Koharu! You can't leave me for another man, no matter Japan's crisis!" 

 

"And they're right; you _are_ what Japan needs," Yukimura sweetly tells him, batting his eyelashes. "Image-of-Japanese-virility-kun."

 

This, Niou is sure, is a bad dream.

 

It has to be, when Yukimura swings for a ball--and _misses_ , because the weird little bald guy puts on a giant pair of glasses.

 

“That’s...not even funny,” he mutters helplessly to Fuji on the bleachers.

 

It gets worse when Sanada prepares his _Fu_ , only to falter, erupting into giggles when one of the men strikes a silly, puckered-lip pose.

 

“That’s not funny at _all_. What’s wrong with them?”

 

Fuji gives Niou's knee a sympathetic pat, and rather enjoys watching Yukimura end up with a double fault as he dissolves into giggles. "Bad sense of humor. At least they share it, right?" 

 

"Here you go, I-ke-men-kuuun--"

 

"Shit shit shit shit _shit_ \--" It's sort of squeaked out, even, and Yukimura barely returns the ball as he trips over his feet going after it.

 

Fuji sort of chokes on his own laughter. "Your captain has a _mouth_. Since when?"

 

"Out! Game Shitenhouji, 3 games to 1!"

 

On second thought, Eiji might not ever need to know about this.

 

“They’re going to _hate_ themselves later,” Niou mutters, sinking down in his seat, not unlike a child who doesn’t want to be seen with his parents.

 

“S-Seiichi,” Sanada gasps, trying hard to hold in his laughter and nearly bursting a blood vessel in his forehead, “h-he has _another wig!_ ”

 

“Oooh, you like my wig! Hehehe, I’m leaving you for another man, Yuu-chan! It’s my feminine urges!”

 

“GodDAMN it!” 

 

“Out! Game Shitenhouji, 4 games to 1!”

 

Yukimura gives up, bent double and clutching at his knees as he wheezes through a fit of laughter so strong that he can't even _vocalize it_ anymore.

 

"Ah," Fuji says, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from snickering too loudly. "Well. Looks like fun, at least? The fall of the Azobu greats."

 

“There’s no coming back from this,” Yagyuu says tiredly. 

 

“We’ll never be able to show our faces again,” Jackal agrees.

 

“This _never_ leaves the court,” Niou mutters. 

 

“Game and match, Shitenhouji! 6 games to 1!”

 

“Kill me,” Sanada wheezes, stumbling off the court as his face turns from red to purple. “It’s--kinder.”

 

"S…sorry, everyone," Yukimura manages to gasp out, collapsing down onto the bench in another fit of giggling. "Fuck, Genichirou, kill me, too--" 

 

"It _would_ be logical that the two of you think homosexual-based humor is among the funniest--"

 

Yukimura grabs one of Marui's cakes and throws it directly into Yanagi's face--in a dignified fashion, of course.

 

"My _cake!_ "

 

“Guess it’s up to me to reclaim our honor,” Niou mutters, rolling his eyes at the _weirdoes_ on his team. “They think _I’m_ weird,” he mutters to Fuji, looking down at the guy--wow, he has a lot of cactus scratches on his arms. They must be vicious little suckers.

 

"Yanagi, let me have some of my cake back--"

 

"…Bunta, it's on my face."

 

"Yeah…and…I want it."

 

Yukimura makes some weird, strangled squeaking noise that is somewhere along the lines of trying not to start laughing again. 

 

"God speed," Fuji solemnly offers Niou. 

 

Niou winks, and changes, bringing his hand to his mouth as he inhales deeply. “Mmm….ecstasy.”

 

The wig is _itchy_ , but that doesn’t matter when he hops down to the court, letting Shiraishi face himself across the net. “Yo.” _Please tell me you’re not going to tell jokes, I don’t want to hear Buchou shrieking and squeaking in the sidelines._

 

Shiraishi's head tilts slowly sideways before he just sighs, shrugs, and decides he's seen weirder. "And here I thought _our_ school had a reputation and all…" 

 

"Two Kurarins!! Iyaaaa, my heart can't take it!"

 

Fuji is pretty sure he can think of a few interestingly obscene scenarios for this all the same.

 

Shiraishi is kind of...hot, really. There’s something obscene about the way he doesn’t seem to _know_ it, but Niou can see it, feel it in the way he moves. He dodges and leaps for the ball, using his _Perfect Tennis_.

 

He manages to get Shiraishi to a tie at 6-6, and a quick conference determines that a draw is acceptable. Niou doesn’t _quite_ fall down sweating, but it’s a close thing. He rips off the wig, flopping down to the bleachers to watch the next match, giving up and flopping over onto Marui’s lap. “Your legs are the fattest,” he explains.

 

"I'm not fat!" Marui protests, and huffily shoves another piece of cake into his mouth, pouting as he chews and tries to shove Niou off. "You're gross, sweat on Yagyuu, he likes it!"

 

" _No_ ," Yagyuu warns immediately, scooting away quickly to grab his racket and escape (why he has to play singles one is beyond him, why their captain gets bored and flips things around like this is beyond him, why anything at this point).

 

"While I apologize for the poor showing from Sanada and I, we still greatly appreciate you taking the time to play with us while Shitenhouji is in Tokyo," Yukimura offers Shiraishi, and prides himself on not starting up with more giggles. God _dammit_. 

 

Shiraishi, soaked in sweat himself, just offers Yukimura a wry smile. "It happens." He doesn't sound very apologetic about it. " _They_ happen, rather…"

 

Yukimura strangles another broken noise, and Fuji idly leans over Marui's shoulder from behind to drop a towel onto Niou's face. "Nice game. If you had played against me like that, maybe you would have won." 

 

Niou wiggles his tongue in a frightfully lewd manner, but snatches it back in by the time Sanada pulls the towel off and whacks him with it. “Leave me alone, I didn’t lose,” he mutters, and rolls over to stare up at Fuji through the sweat. “I thought you never lost to the same opponent twice, huh?”

 

"I don't," Fuji says with a smile. "And I've never lost to you, so let's keep it that way."

 

"Umm, can you please get off of my thighs, you're gross and your hair feels _weird_ when it's sweaty," Marui complains. "Jackal, help."

 

Yukimura shoots them a sharp look. "All of you, be quiet and actually watch the last match."

 

"…When do we get to watch Buchou get slapped?" Marui mutters underneath his breath after Yukimura turns around. "It's the stuff of legends…"

 

Niou hauls himself up with a groan, the steely hands of Jackal “helping” him along. “Ow. Asshole.”

 

He collapses sideways onto Fuji’s thighs instead. “Hey, that’s not bad,” he says, pleased. “I thought you’d be more muscley. Much better than I expected, almost as good as Fatty.”

 

“That’s enough,” Jackal says simply, and Niou shuts up about Marui’s thighs.

 

Marui makes a last, grumpy face at Niou before offering Jackal a piece of cake in reward.

 

Fuji decides this is tolerable, and above that, his fate for showing up to a practice game where strange things abound. He has no room to talk, anyway. "Mmn. Even our coach back at Seigaku used to make comments about how soft my body was at times. Isn't that disturbing." 

 

“S’nice,” Niou says, nudging his head against the surface under his cheek. 

 

“Now!” Sanada thunders, face gone dark and entirely mirthless. “Everyone who lost, come up here!”

 

“Goddammit.”

 

Marui rubs his hands together eagerly. "This is gonna be _great_. Ahhh, poor Akaya, missing this rare occasion…"

 

"Do ties count as losing?" Fuji asks, honestly curious. It's always interesting to see other teams and how they run practice. Azobu, just like Rikkai, _does_ seem to be rather like a yakuza group crossed with some weird feudal military system. "And who gets to slap Sanada-kun?"

 

" _Everyone_ ," Marui answers with a grin.

 

Fuji wonders how normal it is to get excited over something like that. Then again, he'd probably get excited, too. Yukimura, for his part, seems unfazed as he glides over and smiles sweetly up at Sanada.

 

Sanada’s hand flies back, dealing out judgment first to Yagyuu, who really should know better. Then, while it’s still tingling (with _justice_ ), he lets it fly back again, facing Yukimura.

 

It trembles.

 

Then it falls. 

 

“I’m going to try again,” he mutters. It’s hard not to remember the way Yukimura had looked up at him that long time ago, the only time he’s ever hit Yukimura, when he’d refused to go to the hospital even after collapsing, running himself into the ground.

 

But this is _justice_. 

 

His hand flies back again, and he lets out a strangled bellow as he lets it fly.

 

It hits Yukimura’s cheek with all the weight of a soft dead fish. Sanada wants to drown himself. “I can’t.”

 

"Aww, c'mon, Fukubuchou!! You have to really do it!" Marui whines, simultaneously  rejoicing in the fact that _he_ doesn't have to get hit for a change. 

 

"Where is your great and unbiased fairness now, Genichirou?" Yanagi deadpans.

 

"He's right, Sanada," Yukimura says, staring up at him wide-eyed and blinking. He might have nuzzled his face against Sanada's hand, just a little. "You have to set a good example for the rest of the team." 

 

“SHUT UP!” Sanada thunders. Yukimura is being _very unfair,_ and eventually he just shuts his eyes and lets his hand fly with a resounding _smack_.

 

It’s his own eyes that water, and his knees wobble. “Please forgive me, Buchou!”

 

"This is _fascinating_ ," Fuji says, watching as Yukimura strangles a whimper. "Do they do this all the time?" 

 

Yukimura turns away to the squeak of 'ow ow ow ow' underneath his breath, sniffling and wiping at his eyes. 

 

"Jackal, take a picture," Marui hisses. 

 

“They definitely don’t do this all the time,” Niou mutters. “This is only the second time Buchou got slapped as far as we know,” he says over the sound of a clicking phone camera. “Oh, sweet, this is the best part.”

 

“Everyone!! Come at me!”

 

Jackal stuffs his phone away, sliding eagerly off the bleachers. 

 

“ _Not_ you,” Sanada snarls to Niou, who can’t help but pout a bit. “You didn’t win.”

 

“I didn’t lose!”

 

“Azobu isn’t about not losing! It’s about winning! Just be grateful you didn’t get slapped! Buchou, please!”

 

"You were late, too, Niou," Yukimura manages, still working on realigning his jaw. "Don't complain at Sanada--ah, damn it all, my eyes won't stop watering--"

 

"That's called crying, Seiichi."

 

"Shut up, Yanagi."

 

"It was a very miserable loss, Sanada-fukubuchou," Marui sternly tells him, and lets his hand fly.

 

Just remembering even the slightest bit of that match sort of makes Yukimura choke on his tears, and fall prey to an odd mix of laughing and crying. 

 

Gritting his teeth helps him avoid cutting the inside of his cheek on his teeth, but it doesn’t help when Marui brings every bit of his _power_. Sanada’s eyes burn, and he blinks that away furiously. “Good! Yanagi, come!”

 

“It’s okay if you think we’re nuts,” Niou says cheerfully to Fuji. “A lot of people do.”

 

"This is fascinating," Fuji breathes. He watches, enthralled, as Yanagi's backhand connects with the side of Sanada's face. "Maybe I would still be playing tennis if we received corporal punishment at Seigaku."

 

Niou raises an eyebrow. “ _Interesting_ ,” he says, as enough of a comment.

 

Sanada starts to call for Akaya, only to remember that he’s not even _here_ , but back at Rikkai. He firms his jaw, then gestures at Yukimura, wincing at the handprint on the side of the Captain’s face. “Go on! Don’t be soft!”

 

Fuji stares intently. "Aren't they dating? I've always _wondered_ how relationship dynamics would change if one person is in a higher position of power. I wonder if this affects anything--"

 

Yukimura hits harder than all of them, judging by how Sanada's hat goes flying. Fuji's head tilts. "…Other than making Sanada's dick hard, I mean," he absently finishes.

 

Niou snorts. “Yukimura does that by breathing. It’s kind of funny sometimes to impersonate Yukimura and see what weird shit will get him hard. Dangerous,” he points out somewhat pensively, “but funny.”

 

"Hmm. So you _can_ do that stuff outside of the tennis court. That's…nice." 

 

Well, Fuji’s obvious. Niou grins, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head. “Sure. I have to be doing some... _movements_ , though. Otherwise I need a wig and stuff. Usually I can move enough to fool anyone.”

 

"Uh huh. I might believe that, Niou-kun, if I hadn't seen through you easily enough before," Fuji says with a smile. "Though you _do_ owe me one, so maybe I'll satisfy my curiosity at some point in the future."

 

“Maybe you will,” Niou says, raising one eyebrow. “As long as you don’t... _let your guard down_.”

 

Fuji prides himself on strangling any and all noises in his throat, though the flash of heat that twitches down his spine when Niou imitates Tezuka's voice so perfectly is inevitable. "Right. That's enough of that."

 

Niou looks down, then up at the court again, snorting softly. “Fuck, you’re easier than Sanada.”

 

"Go to hell, I haven't heard that voice in months," Fuji says, immediately (and unusually) snappy. No use trying to hide any of this, anyway, not when Niou called him on it instantly. He looks at the court again, and apparently Shitenhouji's Comedy Doubles are putting on a dramatic reenactment of Sanada attempting to slap Yukimura. It's startlingly accurate.

 

Niou watches the doubles pair, and even he cracks a smile. “They should do that in summer stock theater. I’d go. If it weren’t in _Osaka_ , I’m never going back down south in summer again if I can help it.”

 

"Can't blame you; it's nice out here, you're so close to the ocean. Ah, your captain is on the ground again." Presumably laugh-crying.

 

“Mm, it might get better soon. Yep--watch this, Sanada’s going to throw a fit because he thinks Buchou’s dying, that’s always melodramatic and good for a laugh.” 

 

“ _YUKIMURAAAA_!!!”

 

"…I lied, I want to transfer here just to watch this every day. Ah, but then Eiji would be jealous…" Fuji muses. "He's got some weird idol-crush on Yukimura-kun…"

 

“Eiji...that’s the red bouncy kitten, right? Buchou’s mentioned poaching him a couple times,” Niou muses, more to cause trouble than anything.

 

"Is calling him a kitten just a thing Azobu does? He's fixated on it."

 

Niou shrugs. “It’s what Buchou calls him, so it’s what we call him, I guess. That’s kind of how things go here.”

 

"Yakuza," Fuji agrees, nodding.

 

“Mm, basically. Oi, Buchou!” Niou calls, when they get to a lull in frenzied, hysterical laughter. “Can we get matching tattoos? I think my big sister has a tattoo gun.”

 

"Well, I don't like onsens very much, so I certainly wouldn't miss that," Yukimura muses. 

 

"I like onsens!" Marui protests. 

 

"Ah, but tattoos hurt a lot, don't they? Pass, pass." 

 

"Talk to Akaya about it, Masaharu; he'd probably join in," Yanagi mildly suggests. 

 

Yukimura shoots him a dirty look. "No one is allowed to sully him."

 

"Said as if he's a perfect angel already," Yagyuu mutters underneath his breath.

 

“Niou!”

 

“Shit,” Niou mutters, scrambling back to avoid Sanada’s sudden imminent wrath, headed towards the bleachers. 

 

“How dare you suggest such defilement? You should pray for three hours tonight in seiza!”

 

“Uh…Buchou? A little help?”

 

"I've already been more than generous with you today, Niou," Yukimura sweetly calls after him. "Maybe praying would do you some good!"

 

"Buchou is very cruel today," Marui whispers.

 

"Praying and coming to practice an hour early every day in the mornings, I think! That's when Sanada and I get here. You can play against us and help us with our doubles game, won't that be fun!"

 

Fuji decides he likes Yukimura more and more. His methods are indeed cruel and unusual. 

 

“I need that curling release notice like yesterday,” Niou mutters, slinking low and moving closer to Fuji as Sanada storms away. “We’re definitely going to start having weekly games. Maybe daily games.”

 

"Are you sure your captain will let you pursue another sport?" Fuji asks, eyebrows raised. "Founding and maintaining a club is quite a task, you know…" Who is he kidding, curling is ridiculous and awful.

 

“I think I can find the time to hit a rock at a tree. No offense to the great and, uh, majestic sport.”

 

"None taken. I wonder if it will turn us to fat old men, though. It seems to have a tendency." 

 

“I don’t want to get fat, that’s not negotiable,” Niou says immediately. “That’s Marui’s job. It’s fine if I get old, my hair’s gray anyway. Hey, do you have a curfew?”

 

"No, I don't. I thought this was bleached," Fuji idly says, reaching out to catch a strand of Niou's hair and pull. "Also, Marui-kun doesn't seem any fatter than me, or am I missing another Azobu joke?"

 

“He’s fat when you pinch him right. Like here,” Niou points out, pinching the inside of one of Fuji’s thighs. “Screams, too.” He doesn’t comment on the “bleach” comment. Some things are better ignored. Some of those things are true things.

 

Fuji doesn't jump or scream, though he does twitch a little, and yanks harder on Niou's hair with a smile. "It's a good thing I'm not fat when pinched right, then." 

 

“There’s more than one kind of fat,” Niou says cryptically. “I haven’t decided about that yet.”

 

"Maybe the term you're looking for is 'pleasantly squishy.'" 

 

Unbeknownst to the two of them, Yukimura takes a quick picture with his cellphone and sends it to Atobe along with the text: _Flirting y/n and are you responsible for this monstrosity, if so please explain._

 

“Still haven’t made up my mind. You’re welcome to help sway my decision.” Niou looks up through long lashes. “But that’s not what I was referring to.”

 

**[Hola from Spain, Godchild! Isn’t that your copycat? This seems unsafe, pls advise.]**

 

Fuji might like where this is going. "…So why the question about curfews?" Ah. Niou has long eyelashes, that's nice.

 

**[Invite me next time. What do you mean pls advise, this is your fault.]**

 

“I’m not really...a daytime person,” Niou explains, wiggling his eyebrows. “If you’re down here already, I might as well show you my Tokyo.”

 

**[I did nothing! And I did invite you, Sanada intercepted and told me there was no time for such frivolity.]**

 

"Let me guess--you _never_ make it to morning practice," Fuji teases, tilting his head as he considers. "Hmmm. Well, that sounds better than my sister coming along later. She's not as fun as me." 

 

Yukimura, meanwhile, gives Sanada a very dark look. **[Rude. I wasn't informed. Also I am about 63% sure this is your fault, somehow. Conference when you return, it's v. unsafe]**

 

“What a shame, my sister’s way fun. You can meet her sometime, if she ever comes North.” Niou hops up on the bleacher stand, extending a hand. “How about it? There’s an expo going on a few blocks from here by underpass about demolition and scouring.”

 

**[This is unintended! Adios!]**

 

**[I'm mad about spain and i'm mad about Fuji being at my school. remember this, keikei]**

 

"I came across some dynamite once and kept it," Fuji brightly tells him, and takes Niou's hand, deciding that sulking and cacti tonight doesn't sound very fun at all. "This could be very educational." 

 

“Awesome! Did you keep it? Do you still have it? Have you ever found a way to store it without going off, because I have _not_ had success that way…”

 

"Climate-control is key, as well as turning over its storage box every other day," Fuji advises with a smile. "I don't still have it, but I bet I can get more somehow. Is there something you wanted to blow up? I can think of people." It might be a joke.

 

Niou laughs. It seems to be the thing to do. “After the demo. Hey, if we’re going into Tokyo, wanna grab a bite to eat? I know a place that does the best fugu.”

 

Fuji exhales a pleased sigh. "You have great taste. Yes, let's. And you can tell me ridiculous stories about your team, they seem _so_ much more interesting than mine was…"

 

“Every team is nuts inside if you spend enough time scraping off the outside,” Niou says faux-wisely. “Wanna hear about the time a girl cried herself sick in the club room because she confessed to Sanada and he thought he got her pregnant by sitting next to her in class?”

 

A long stare meets that question at first. "Yes. _Yes_ , I need to hear about this. God, I thought he was smarter than that…"

 

Niou grins. At last, someone he can talk to that doesn’t shut him down when he starts talking smack. Then again, Yukimura _had_ been a poor first choice. “Oh, he’s plenty smart, just not about girls. Probably has something to do with how scared he is of them. Oh, also he’s really bad at telling girls from boys if they have short hair.”

 

Fuji chokes on his own breath. "Ah. I can't even _begin_ to imagine why that's the case. So wait, does he really think he can get girls pregnant just by sitting next to them? No wonder he's at an all-boys school, what a relief that must be…"

 

“I’m pretty sure Buchou constantly feeds him misinformation. Not that he needs to for keeping him in line, he just has a terrible sense of humor.” Niou’s eyes light up. “Oh, I just had a _great_ idea, remind me to get my Yukimura wig out of my bag before practice tomorrow.”

 

"…How many wigs do you have?" Fuji asks, mystified. "A wig to match his hair must have been difficult…"

 

“They’re _really_ expensive,” Niou complains. “No one stocks his wig properly, I have to go through cosplay stores. Yours is easy to find, at least.”

 

"That's kind of freaky. Can you not become me, at least while I'm around?" 

 

“You’d save on buying mirrors. That’s an important factor no one thinks about.”

 

"Fair. But I don't sit and stare at a mirror all that often, I'd rather admire my cacti and photo albums." 

 

Niou shrugs. “Fair. I’m not usually home enough to look at mirrors.”

 

"I'll name a cactus after you. Then someone is looking at your image, more or less."

 

Niou’s head tilts. “That’s...weirdly cool.”

 

Fuji beams. "You're the first person to ever say that! Ahhh, I've been spending _way_ too much time with Eiji and Oishi, they don't understand how lovely it is to have a cacti named after one's personage. I named one after Tezuka, of course. I tell Oishi to update him on its status whenever they talk, but I don't think he does. Isn't that rude?" 

 

“Yeah, I have no idea who Oishi is. Is he the one that Yanagi used to bone?”

 

"No, not that one, that's Inui. Oishi was our vice captain, Eiji's doubles partner and wife." 

 

“Ohhh, right, him.” Niou snorts. “I thought Sanada was going to punch him in the face at Kantou. Man, neither of them were ever meant to be captains, huh?”

 

"A punch to the face might have done him some good. I'll never understand why Tezuka made him vice-captain." Whoops. Fuji pauses, considers, then shrugs. "I've never really said that to anyone. Mm, well, at least Sanada seems to be a great enforcer. Oishi…well. He's great at being neurotic." It feels rather nice to be bitchy for a change.

 

“I couldn’t deal with that,” Niou says, making a face. “Or, well, I wouldn’t be very good at listening. I’m bad enough at listening to Sanada and he slaps me if I don’t. I can usually run away in time, though. He’s bad at knowing when something’s a decoy. What did Oishi do that was so neurotic?”

 

"Other than hyperventilating at every point when Tezuka was away?" Here comes the can of worms. "At the nationals, when Eiji played a singles match? It's because Oishi decided to not tell him about a continuing injury and made a spectacle about it instead by playing a match to 'determine a regular position' with Echizen. That's just the tip of the iceberg, really; such a martyr…" Fuji trails off, sighing. "Nowadays, I think he dislikes me because I'm better at sucking his boyfriend's cock than he is, and Eiji has told him as much." _That_ was an interesting lover's spat that he found himself in the middle of. 

 

Niou switches to walking backwards, hands in his pockets, so he can look at Fuji’s face while they walk. “Yeah? If he’s so insecure he should get some more practice, man. That’s the thing about imitation, you know? If you want to be the best, you have to accept that no one knows everything. Everyone’s got something to teach.” His eyes lid slightly. “So, how good at it are you?”

 

Fuji's lips quirk in open amusement. "Good. Or so I've been told. Eiji wins, though, and _he_ is an excellent teacher, so you're very right. And yourself?" 

 

“Haven’t had a complaint for years,” Niou says, unabashed. “And I once made Yagyuu fall off the bed while he was lying on it because he came so hard. Can you top that?”

 

"Recently, Eiji barely got it out of his pants before he came on my face and told me I was a good girl," Fuji lightly recalls. "But yours sounds pretty good." 

 

Niou’s eyes go dark. Why the hell did he suggest fugu? Otherwise he’d suggest skipping dinner and going back to the dorms. But...fugu.

 

“He sounds like the excitable type, though,” Niou points out. “How long has it been since you were sucking off someone who doesn’t come right away like a damn kid?”

 

"Last summer," Fuji supplies, and smiles, eyes slitting. "Ask Shiraishi. Or, you know, he might not remember. It was weird, after the semifinal." And then there was yakiniku, which is why he is sure nothing is remembered and that's for the best.

 

“Shiraishi? Really?” Niou lets out a laugh like a bark. “You got there before I did. You get anyone else on my list?”

 

"Depends who is on your list, give me a rundown. First of all--you and Yukimura? Was that ever a thing or…"

 

Niou rolls his eyes so hard it’s probably audible. “A mountain forever unclimbed. Why bother when someone else built a condo at the top? Married,” he clarifies. “Since like, four years old, gross.”

 

"One can only dream about such a life," Fuji sighs. "It's for the best, seems high maintenance." 

 

“Sounds dumb,” Niou says. “What’s the point of being monogamous when you’re in high school? Like, have you fucked every dick? How do you know that’s the best one?”

 

Fuji gives a little shrug. "I can understand it, to a degree. If I had my top pick, I wouldn't bother with anyone else, but…you know. We can't always have what we want in life." 

 

Niou nods slowly. Then he turns away, ostensibly, and puts on a pair of glasses from his pocket before turning back. “Mm.”

 

"You're the worst," Fuji says, sucking in a too-sharp breath and finding the reaction rather vexing. "The frightening thing, actually, is that most people don't _realize_. Especially him. I thought I was quite forward. You're certain about fugu?"

 

Niou laughs, and doesn’t bother taking off the glasses. They’re prescription, and make his vision swim. He kind of likes it. “The restaurant will still be there after. Or tomorrow.” He shoves Fuji suddenly against the wall of the underpass, bringing their faces close enough together that he can feel the other boy’s breath. “Or whenever we stop.”

 

Maybe his sister is right about socializing more, if this is what it gets him--assuming this counts as socializing.

 

It isn't Tezuka. It doesn't feel like Tezuka, because Niou isn't quite as bony as Tezuka, which Fuji can recall from the few times they were squished together in a train on the way to a match, and he doesn't smell like him, still clean and pleasantly masculine even after a match (Niou smells a hell of a lot more dangerous), but, _details_ \--

 

Fuji sucks in another fast breath and fists his hands up into Niou's hair, yanking him down and crushing their lips together with a groan that he can't stop. He bites a little, his teeth scraping over that full lower lip to make it swell. This _definitely_ counts as socializing.

 

If this is how Fuji kisses, Niou can’t wait to see how he sucks cock.

 

He lurches up into the kiss, returning the scrape of teeth for the same, groaning at the taste of Fuji’s mouth. It’s not easy to maintain the illusion like this, but he’s not _performing_ , not right now. Fuji’s eyes are closed anyway, and this is _good enough_ , it’s good enough, when neither of them can see and he can feel Fuji getting hard through his pants. 

 

Strong hands grab Fuji’s shoulders, and urge him down--not a shove, not unless he wants it to be. “I want to see if you suck cock as good as you kiss,” he says, low and urgent and at least half-Tezuka behind the blurry glasses.

 

Fuji's knees buckle, _making_ it into a shove, and god, if he doesn't _love it._

 

The voice is _more_ than close enough, and it makes him shudder down to his toes, his hands an urgent, needy paw at Niou's shorts, mouth hot even just when he's kissing over his belly, tongue flicking into his belly button. "Fuck," Fuji breathes, face flushing hot as he nuzzles between Niou's legs, tormenting _himself_ a little bit by drawing it out and not pulling Niou's cock out already. "Want you to just ride my face."

 

God, Fuji’s easy. He’s easy to read, and Niou bets it’s gonna be easy to fuck him like he obviously wants and never gets. 

 

One hand grabs Fuji’s hair, yanking him back until he’s an inch or two away from where Niou’s getting rock-hard in his shorts. “Oh?” he asks, with considerably more control over the voice this time, now that he’s catching his breath. “You think I should give it to you?”

 

Fuji whines this time, trembling where he kneels, his fingers splaying out against Niou's thighs but not grabbing, not pulling. He's _trying_ to be good, especially when that voice alone is enough to make him pant like a dog and writhe where he sits at Niou's feet. Not Niou. Might as well be Tezuka. His cock throbs, and he squirms again, lips parted and wet where his tongue keeps flicking out over them. "Please," he rasps. "Just--let me be good for you--"

 

Niou hesitates for a _long_ moment, making Fuji writhe on his knees in an underpass and loving every filthy second of it. His hand is firm in Fuji’s hair, and he leans down to whisper in his ear in the best imitation of Tezuka he can, “Go on. Be good for your Captain.”

 

Then he releases his hair, leaning back against the wall to let Fuji take control.

 

Fuji shudders down to his bones, and it's a miracle he doesn't come right then and there. 

 

He lurches forward and catches the waistband of Niou's shorts with his teeth, yanking them down in swift order and immediately has his mouth on his cock, groaning low in his throat when he mouths hot, wet kisses up the side of it, his tongue slick and wet and messy when it swipes over the tip. The taste makes Fuji's eyes roll back into his head, the scent of sweat and arousal thick in his nose, and his hands grab for Niou's hips, urgent and needy and as hungry as his mouth when it wraps around the head of Niou's cock, one messy suck and bob of his head swallowing him whole. 

 

Shit, Niou was right. Fuji is _easy_.

 

Fuji hadn’t been lying when he said he was good at sucking cock, either. Niou’s eyes slide shut behind the blurry glasses and he groans, head thunking back against the wall.  “Mm, the famous genius...you’re a genius at this too,” he breathes. 

 

Fuji’s tongue is hot and slick and _wriggling_ , driving Niou nuts, and he barely remembers Fuji’s earlier words for a minute. Then he grins. It’s easier when he’s moving, and he lets the illusion take full effect as he grabs Fuji’s hair again, yanking him down onto his cock, forcing him to deep-throat. “Open those closed eyes,” he says, feeling even his skin and hair change color as he shoves his cock into the other boy’s mouth. “Look at me when I’m fucking you.”

 

It's _impossible_ not to do what he's told when it's Tezuka's voice, _Tezuka's cock_ in his mouth, and Fuji sucks in a ragged breath through his nose when his eyes crack open, a hard blink making tears spill over. 

 

His cock has _never_ been this hard. Of course it would be now, though, when he's swallowing hard to try not to gag, when he can taste what he's _sure_ Tezuka would taste like, dripping over his tongue and down his throat and Fuji just _moans_ , peering up through his lashes, lips stretched wide around Niou's cock, nose practically nuzzling into his stomach. _Keep using me, keep fucking me, whatever you want, please--_

 

Niou’s always had a feeling Fuji Shuusuke would be a freak in bed.

 

He just hadn’t known how _much_.

 

“I bet you’d do anything I told you,” he breathes, his grip brutal as he slams in so hard his balls slap against Fuji’s chin. Even then, the other boy makes sure not to bite or scrape with his teeth. “What a slut.”

 

With an immense effort of will, he pulls out, wiping the head of his dripping, sticky cock across Fuji’s face, his cheeks, his lips, painting him with pre-come and his own saliva. “Look what a fucking mess you are, shit.”

 

Fuji visibly shudders, his eyes fluttering as he rocks back slightly, panting through bruised, sticky lips. "Just for you," he groans, lurching forward again to try and get another taste, his mouth hot against the side of Niou's cock. "Fuck, j-just for you, Tezuka--ah, god, please come in my mouth, I'll let you see how much I made you come afterwards, need to taste you--"

 

For the first time in a long time, Niou has to wonder if he’s just as easy as Fuji. His cock _throbs_ at those breathy words. The worst part about it is that Fuji would probably say them on purpose, anyone would, to try and get him to come fast--but Niou would bet anything that Fuji’s being completely genuine right now, insatiable lust and all.

 

He nods, and it takes all his concentration to hold the illusion when Fuji sucks him so _well_ , takes him down his throat, and Niou lets out a groan when he finally comes, pulling back to spill over Fuji’s tongue, flooding his mouth with every hot spurt of liquid. God _damn_ , but he’d wanted to see Fuji on his knees in a filthy underpass for a lot longer. “Go on,” he pants, pushing the glasses up onto his nose. “Show me what’s in your mouth.”

 

It's hard to keep his word and obey when his own body is a shaking, trembling mess, his cock aching so hard that he swears he's going to die. He _wants_ to swallow, but the heady, musky taste on his tongue is better, and Fuji whimpers in the back of his throat when he opens his mouth, shivering as he sticks out his tongue enough to make it easy for Niou (no, it's Tezuka, god, it might as well be, with the way that he shoves his glasses up and has every bit of that quiet authority in his voice, illusion be damned) to see the mess left in his mouth.

 

Niou’s eyes lid, and he sucks in a slow, shaky breath at the mess left behind in Fuji’s mouth. “Hold,” he commands, low and soft, and reaches a hand down, dipping the tip of one finger into the mess before pulling it out, watching the sticky strand connecting his finger and those swollen lips. 

 

Then he nods, just once. “You’ve been a good boy. Swallow it now.”

 

Ah, _fuck_.

 

Fuji shuts his eyes and swallows hard, breath ragged as it escapes through his nose. He slumps forward, mindlessly nuzzling at Niou's hip, and he dimly thinks it would be nice to just rut against him like a dog right then. Or he can stay like this--ah, yeah, that's good. It hurts and it's good and he likes the idea of Tezuka not giving a shit about what he wants (it's nothing new, anyway).

 

Niou starts to lick his lips, then stops. That would break the illusion, for sure. _Be a dick. It’s not that hard._

 

“If,” he says, affecting almost bored indifference, “you can look _presentable_ for the rest of the walk to the dorms….I suppose I could touch you when we get there. But not if you make a mess before we get there. I’m not sure you can control yourself.”

 

 _It was nice knowing you, world_ , Fuji hazily thinks, and he'd laugh at himself for being so pathetically _easy_ if he wasn't busy turning into trembling, melted mush at Niou's feet when he comes without a single touch, every goddamn word going straight to his dick and nope, _nope_ , his stamina isn't good enough to endure _Tezuka_ , not when he's been so turned on for so long.

 

"Too late," he breezily manages, slumping down with his cheek against Niou's thigh, and he shivers with every lingering aftershock. Well, now he's a _definite_ mess. Oh well. "Ahh, _god_ …who said that was fair?"

 

Niou pulls off the glasses, shaking off the illusion as he tucks them into his pocket. He grins, sweaty and satiated, and pets Fuji’s hair with an affectionate scritch of his fingers. “Thought you might like that. Never say I’m not accommodating.”

 

"Never would," Fuji says with a happy sigh, butting his head up into Niou's touch. "Hope it was worth your while, too. You're _good_ at that." Stating the obvious, but, well, his mind is still oddly fuzzy around the edges.

 

“You’re good at _that_.” Better than he was expecting, really. Niou sinks down the wall, crouching against it as he slowly pets Fuji’s hair, pulling him close. Definitely stupid and dangerous, but damned if he doesn’t sort of want to do this again. “You can still come back to my dorm. I’d say we can go for fugu, but I’d need new clothes and my spares are covered in cat piss.”

 

"Ah, right. Territorial dispute," Fuji idly recalls, and he scoots close, definitely no stranger to cuddling considering his usual company. It's especially good after something that _intense_ , when it leaves his bones feeling like rubber and his mind still misfiring. He sighs and props his chin up onto Niou's shoulder. Not Tezuka, but still good. "Maybe fugu another day," he muses. "Or later, if we feel like it. I think we both need a shower."

 

“Mm, definitely. I’m not supposed to show up to practice smelling like underpass anymore, whatever that means.” He grins, and tugs a strand of Fuji’s hair gently. “Can you walk? I can get us a taxi, I’ve got cash.”

 

"I can walk." Fuji pauses, and considers. "Underpasses _do_ smell weird."

 

“Do they? I’m used to it, I guess.” Niou stands, and helps Fuji to his feet. “You can shower at my dorm. Azobu’s got private showers for each dorm room, it’s really nice. We’ve even got an onsen, if you want.”

 

"Fancy. Should've known, though." Fuji wobbles a bit, grimacing at the general _stickiness_ and damn, that's going to chafe at this rate, but a shower will happen soon enough. "You don't really seem like a guy that would enjoy dorm life, though…is it that much of a commute, where you're from?" 

 

“Shikoku.” Niou makes a face. “But you’re wrong about dorm life, it’s awesome. The matrons are crazy easy to trick with just a dummy in a wig under a blanket, so you can pretty much do whatever you want. It’s just like five blocks that way, think you can make it?”

 

"I'll survive. What happens if you get locked out, though? Dorms definitely have curfews." Maybe Niou really doesn't sleep and is an actual vampire. 

 

“That’s when I come in through Yukimura and Sanada’s window,” Niou says, unconcerned. “Buchou doesn’t mind. Sanada...does. It’s funny. He thinks no one knows about them.”

 

"…But they're unrepentantly all over one another. Half the time, I sort of expect Sanada to be sitting at Yukimura's feet. You know, if it were useful for tennis."

 

Niou shrugs. “He really, honestly thinks they’re subtle. Don’t ask me, I can’t fathom how his crazy mind works, all straight lines and forward motion.”

 

"Do you think he likes being slapped? Seems like he does," Fuji idly muses. "If it were me, I'd be much more motivated if I got smacked around a bit. You guys have a good thing going here."

 

“I can slap you around.”

 

"Niou-kun, you're spoiling me already."

 

“You’re high-maintenance,” Niou says cheerfully. “I’m gonna need a new Tezuka wig.”

 

Fuji laughs at that. "It doesn't matter so much," he says, giving Niou's arm a pat. "Good once in awhile, but I can still tell the difference, so it's fine. I'm still pretty easy."

 

“I’m not sure anyone else would see it that way.” Niou’s arm snakes down to give Fuji’s ass a pinch.

 

"No complaints, I always return my favors," Fuji brightly replies. "And if you keep doing that, I'm going to climb you like a tree." 

 

Niou gives his ass a firm squeeze, then points to an upcoming building. “That’s the dorms. Think you can wait for my dick until then?”

 

"Niou-kun is very ambitious," Fuji vaguely replies. "Hmmm. I'll be patient, it's worth it." 

 

 _Ambitious_? Odd choice of words. Niou kind of likes it. “Yo, if you don’t want to check in, there’s a fence over this way we can climb. Otherwise there’s a paper trail, I’m not sure how strict you are about not leaving one of those…”

 

"I like climbing fences and not leaving paper trails. Seems like a wise decision, what with how your captain already seemed to be reporting my presence to someone." Don't think he didn't see the picture being taken. Fuji _knows_ about taking secret pictures.

 

Niou mutters something that sounds like _I knew it_ , and jerks his head at Fuji, leading him up a drainpipe and over the fence. He doesn’t bother to ask if Fuji can make it. Anyone who plays (played) tennis like that can scale a simple wall, he’s positive.

 

Maybe his sister is right, though. Maybe he needs to start being more active again, because this is more work than he'd bargained for. Fuji hauls himself over all the same, uncaring for the scuffs of dirt on his clothes (his knees are already tell-tale, so whatever) and lands solidly on his feet. The Azobu dorms _are_ nice, and Fuji idly reconsiders that transfer again. Eiji would be upset with him, though. 

 

"Do you have a roommate? Or do you scare them off on a regular basis?" Fuji figures he'd probably do the same. Seems like fun, at any rate.

 

“He transferred a couple weeks after term started. Got a medical single. That’s what they call it when someone starts experiencing psychotic episodes after a couple weeks of sharing a room, I guess.” Unconcerned, Niou scales the wall like a lizard, sliding in through his own open window. “You need a bedsheet or something?”

 

"Nope," Fuji cheerfully answers, and paws his way up a bit slower, but in nonetheless, and lands in a graceful heap when he rolls in through the window. "That's convenient. You can hide things in their mattress now." 

 

Niou grins, and flips up the side zipper of his old roommate’s mattress, revealing a selection of obscure tools. “You read my mind.” He takes off his jersey, throwing it on the floor, and follows it with his shirt. “Wanna read it again?”

 

Fuji maintains that his new curling tournament sign was the best thing he's ever done in a long while. It landed him here at the end of the day, after all. 

 

His own shirt hits the floor, his belt after that after he lurches up to his feet, and Fuji grabs Niou by the hair to pull him over. "Doesn't matter what you're thinking, though," he says with a smile. "I get what I want either way."

 

Niou’s eyes spark, and he braces himself with a hand on each of Fuji’s hips, kissing him slow and deep and a little roughly before pulling away. “You still kinda taste like my dick,” he says, breathy and eager. He’s pretty sure he likes it when Fuji gets what he wants.

 

"Tastes good," Fuji breathes, eyes slitting open as he sucks Niou's lower lip into his mouth, groaning low in the back of his throat when he gently bites. "Do you smoke? I can taste that, too." It's all bitter and sharp and smoky, all going straight to his cock with every swipe of his tongue, and Fuji shivers when he fumbles at the front of his own pants, shoving them down along with his underwear. It feels good to finally be _naked_ , even if he's still sticky and sweaty from both the heat and everything before. 

 

“Sometimes,” Niou admits, and it turns him on to know that Fuji thinks it’s hot. He looks down, and his breath hitches, eyes going dark. “Shit...you’re a _mess_.” He likes that a lot more than he should, knowing he made Fuji come all over himself in his pants without a touch, made him walk around sticky and filthy with his own come all over his cock, and Niou presses up against him, hips twitching involuntarily.

 

"Whose fault is that?" Fuji murmurs, grinning against Niou's mouth and _biting_ again when he presses close, his hands sliding around to grab at Niou's ass and haul him closer still. His breath is sucked in sharp and short when he feels how hard Niou already is through his shorts, and Fuji takes a bite at his neck next when he steps backward to the bed (presumably) not doubling as a secret storage bin. "Let me make you a mess this time."

 

Niou nods readily, shoving forward against Fuji’s hands, arching and gasping under the bite. Fuji bites _hard_ , the way he likes it, and he doesn’t waste any time in shoving the other boy down to the bed and crawling on top of him. He yanks at his own shorts, kicking them off and sliding, urgent and hard, against Fuji. “You’ve got a really nice dick,” he murmurs, wrapping a hand around the sticky hardness of it. “Bigger than I thought, when you’re such a cumslut.”

 

Fuji hisses and arches, jerking up into the slide of Niou's hand as his own fingers score their way down the length of his back. "So get on it already," he breathes, eyes lidded when he bites again, catching the lobe of Niou's ear this time in a sharp tug. He likes the breathy noises Niou makes maybe a little too much. Maybe he _is_ too easy, but to hell with it, if he's having fun. "I'll give you a reason to skip practice."

 

Niou lurches forward, grabbing a bottle (industrial size) of lube from under the bed and handing it over to Fuji. He raises up onto his knees, straddling the other boy’s hips, hands planted firmly on Fuji’s shoulders. “I like to get fingered first. If you don’t want to, I’ll do it myself.” Vaguely in the back of his mind, he wonders whether Yagyuu will be mad about this. Oh, well. If he is, maybe he’ll get punished, that’s always fun.

 

It's hardly a matter of not wanting to, though Fuji _almost_ says as much just to watch Niou do it himself. Almost. Fuji squirms, shoving himself up onto an elbow, a generous amount of lube spread over his fingers to leave them slick and dripping. "How much do you like to take?" he breathlessly asks, the slide of that first finger against Niou's hole making his breath hitch. Harder than he'd expect to wriggle it inside, even if his fingers are slick and wet and Niou definitely seems eager enough--just _tense_. "Or maybe it's more like how much _can you_ take?" 

 

Niou’s eyes roll back into his head, and he lets out a slow, measured breath. “I like a lot,” he grunts, spreading his knees farther apart on the bed, head bowed in concentration. “Just--takes me a minute.” 

 

He likes being fingered because it’s so fucking obscene, watching someone’s face while they stick their fingers inside him, feeling them wriggle and spread him open--but honestly, he also _needs_ it. No matter how many times he’s done this (a….lot…), it never gets any easier at first. “Keep going, I’ll get there and you can shove in whatever you want.”

 

"That's hot," Fuji absently says, letting the first finger slide in as deep as it can, curling, wriggling to _stroke_ inside of him. "I like having to work for it." His wrist twists, hand pulling back just enough to make it easier to work a second finger in, and he sucks in a sharp, ragged breath at feeling how Niou squeezes around him, his own cock jumping and dripping over his stomach. "Makes it even better when I finally stuff you full. God, you're hot inside. Feel how messy you already are in here?"

 

Niou can feel sweat dripping into his eyes, and a shudder starts at the base of his spine, rippling up his nervous system, making his fingers twitch, his toes curl. Fuji’s fingers feel _good_ , stretching him open, drawing out that dark, low desire that makes his hips rut forward like he’s nothing more than a bitch in heat. “Fuck,” he groans, shoulders slumping forward. “Yeah, mess me up. You gonna make me scream, Fuji?” It’s been a while since someone has, and he misses it.

 

There's something _stupidly_ arousing about feeling Niou open up around his fingers, even if he's still tight enough that Fuji has to work for it, work for even _more_ when he sinks a third finger into him and sweat drips down the back of his own neck. "You're not gonna be able to talk afterwards," he promises, surging up to lick a stripe up Niou's throat, feeling the bob of his Adam's apple, the taste of salt from his sweat. "Need to be in you, right now," Fuji breathes, twisting his hand as he drags his fingers out, and he slicks up his hand with even more lube, dragging it over his cock. 

 

It’s going to hurt, and Niou kind of can’t wait.

 

He gulps for breath, cock throbbing, aching between his legs already, standing up against his stomach when he leans back, grabbing Fuji’s cock in his own slippery fingers to guide it to his hole. “I’m not ready,” he says breathlessly, but that’s pretty far from telling Fuji to stop. “It’s--gonna be--too much, shit, you’re bigger than—”

 

Everything turns to a low whine when he presses himself down over the head of that thick cock, and for a moment, Niou can’t even breathe. The neurons in his brain misfire, and his hands scrabble helplessly at Fuji’s chest as he gasps for air. “Shit, just--fuck, fuck me up already—”

 

Fuji is glad he doesn't have to be nice, because he's _not_ very good at that, contrary to popular opinion.

 

His hands claw at Niou's hips, his teeth snap against his neck, and he yanks the other boy down with a groan, his eyes rolling back into his head when he shoves his hips up into him with a grunt of effort. "Doesn't matter," Fuji rasps. "Take it anyway." He slides in to the root with one long, slick thrust, panting out hot, ragged breaths against Niou's throat, his cock twitching, throbbing inside of him, everything slicker still when he's dripping so much. "Ahh…god, fuck yourself on it, love the way you move." 

 

Niou’s whine strangles in his throat, and he slams himself down as hard as he can. His vision goes white, and he lets out a noise that sounds more feral than anything. “Fff--aaahhh, fucking _fuck_.”

 

He gyrates his hips slowly, eyelids fluttering as he moves in slow, urgent circles, trying to take as much dick as possible at one time, feeling it stretching him out, filling him up slick and hard and _hot_. His head falls back, exposing his neck to Fuji in a pretty ill-conceived gesture of trust. “I’m--greedy,” he pants, humping down mindlessly. “Want it all.”

 

"Have it all, then." Fuji obliges with a ragged, broken groan, hands splayed over Niou's sides, gripping tight enough to bruise when he hauls him down, a foot braced on the mattress to make it easier to snap his hips up into him at the same time. It makes his eyes cross when he's balls-deep and their skin slaps together, loud and obscene, and Fuji fastens his mouth to the arc of Niou's throat, biting, sucking, letting himself just grind up into the sweet, slick heat of Niou's body for a moment, pressed as deep as he can, keeping him relentlessly _full_. 

 

Fuji's hands drag down, grabbing at Niou's ass, sliding lower to let his fingers drag over where they're connected, where his cock spreads Niou wide. "Here." He has to suck in a steadying breath of his own when he slowly, carefully slides in a finger alongside his cock, stretching him wider still and feeling Niou's body _twitch_. "No one fucks you right, do they?" 

 

Niou pitches forward, a helpless, weak-sounding grunting noise all that he can manage. His spine feels like jelly, lungs heaving to try and keep up when he’s thoroughly, _relentlessly_ fucked.

 

“No one,” he manages in a broken moan. Fuji _gets him_ , and that’s a little terrifying. At least, it would be terrifying if he still had the brain to feel terror. As it is, he’s pretty sure he’s melting. His cock jerks and spills, a slow, steady stream draining from him as he rides back on Fuji’s cock, Fuji’s hand, and shit, he _never_ gets to come like this. It’s different from usual, slower and more full-bodied without even a touch to his cock, and Niou grabs at the hand that isn’t spreading him open, bringing it to his mouth.

 

Fuji shudders all the way down to his toes, dragging his fingers over Niou's lips before he shoves a pair inside, twisting them over his tongue. He likes the way Niou's mouth is so _sloppy_ around them, slick and hot and drooling when he's coming all over Fuji's stomach. "Goddamn shame," he groans, and he shoves up hard into him again, adding another finger for good measure, and it's so much _easier_ when Niou is trembling and melting. "Ahh, fuck, you're really a _mess_ \--"

 

His breath catches, ragged and broken when he comes. Everything is a slick mess, dripping out when he wriggles his fingers away, and Fuji's vision doesn't quite work right when he finally slumps back, chest heaving. 

 

Niou’s body doesn’t seem to accept that it’s _over_.

 

He trembles and pants for breath, but his hips keep moving, insistent, uneven thrusts down onto Fuji’s cock, Fuji’s fingers, desperate for more of that perfect _fullness_. Tears prick at his eyes from how overstimulated he is, from that cramping, aching stretch inside him. Niou groans, tipping forward to rest his forehead against Fuji’s chest. 

 

“Fuck,” he grunts, articulately.

 

"Give me five seconds," Fuji breathes, stroking a hand lazily over Niou's hair, "and I'll fuck you again, if you want. Or just finger you. Or something. God, you're _fun_." 

 

Niou struggles up onto his forearms, a shaky grin on his face as he looks down at Fuji through sweat-damp bangs. “Five,” he breathes, wriggling slowly. “Four. Three. Two. One.”

 

"It wasn't _so_ literal, but…" Fuji laughs as he rolls them over, shoving Niou flat onto his back and biting at his throat again. "You're going to look like you had another territorial dispute." 

 

“Good.” 

 

Niou stretches out like a cat, pawing at the bedsheets and spreading his legs eagerly. “Mm, look what a fucking mess you made me.” His eyes lock onto Fuji’s face, wanting to see him _look_.

 

"I did my job right, then," Fuji breathes, hands sliding up Niou's thighs. He bites his  lip when he drags a pair of fingers over Niou's hole, coming away sticky and slick, and there's _really_ no helping the urge to let them sink inside with a slow wriggle. "You're kind of a slut, Niou-kun." 

 

“Nnn, you don’t say.” Niou hisses at the press of those fingers, toes wiggling. “Rather be a slut that gets what I want than a prude that doesn’t--ah, fuck, that’s sore.” Not really a protest. Pretty far from, actually.

 

"Too sore?" Fuji hums, and slides his fingers in to the second knuckle, curling them slowly as he nibbles on the lobe of Niou's ear. "Don't worry, no prudes allowed here. Pretty sick of them myself."

 

Niou bites his lip, squirming on the bed at that point of contact, _too soon_ afterwards, but ah, he wants it _anyway_ —

 

“Not too soon,” he pants, forcing his eyes open to look up at Fuji. “I thought you were going to show me how much I could take, huh? Or was that just--nn--big talk?”

 

Rather than immediately answer, Fuji pulls his hand back--just enough to shove a third finger inside and spread them wide. "It's fun, making you squirm," Fuji murmurs, eyes bright underneath his lashes, and no matter how slick it all is, he grabs for the lube again just in case before working a fourth finger in and pressing in _deep_. "You're kinda made for this, you know?" His other hand drags against the side of Niou's face, thumbing his beauty mark before he rubs his fingers against his lips. "Your body just sucks them in." 

 

Niou throws an arm over his face before a strangled moan comes out of his mouth--too much too fast _too soon too much too much_ \--and he feels tears prick his eyes again, legs spreading as far as they can go. “Let,” he pants, trying to make his thoughts into words, “Let me, turn--ah, let me turn over if you’re going to--more than this—”

 

He wriggles around, trying to turn himself over, but it’s useless trying to move when Fuji’s got his fingers so _deep_ , spreading him so _wide_ , and how obscene is it that he still wants more?

 

Fuji slowly smirks, and he grabs Niou by the hip, holding him steady. "Hmm? The way you're acting, I don't think you _can_ take much more than this." Even if that's the case, he wants to see if Niou _can_ , and he draws his fingers out slowly, carefully, before helping Niou turn over. More lube is a great idea, and his thumb rubs slowly over Niou's twitching hole, over the slow trickle of the mess he's already left behind. "Spread your legs and relax, and let's see if you can really do this." 

 

“Probably not,” Niou groans, “but I wanna try anyway.”

 

He squirms around, getting his legs as far apart as possible. Hey, at least he’s not sore from curling. He digs his toes into the bed, shoulders tensing as he slowly exhales, trying not to just shove himself down on Fuji’s hand already. It’s _difficult_ when he wants it so much, and his whole body is still twitching intermittently at every little brush of Fuji’s thumb.

 

"You _really_ don't get taken care of, do you?" Fuji sympathetically sighs, rubbing a hand at the base of Niou's spine, slow and soothing as he slides those first two fingers in again. At least that's a bit easier now, no matter how Niou's body still squeezes tight around them. He lurches up, mouthing a hot, wet kiss between Niou's shoulder blades, up the back of his neck, and nuzzles his face down into his hair when he wriggles that third finger inside, then the fourth, and twists his wrist to let them slide deep, curling them in a slow, even stroke. "You really want more?" Fuji breathes. "You're already shaking like you can't stand it. Should I make you take more anyway?" 

 

“Feels good,” Niou pants, hands fisting shakily in the bedsheets. He rubs his face side to side, wiping the sweat off of his forehead onto the sheets, sucking in deep breaths. “It’s--it’s fine, I want it, I _always_ have to do all the work—”

 

Not that he means to complain, and most of the time he doesn’t _mind_ , but it’s nice not having to fucking pester someone into sex for once. It’s nice not having to compete with _golf_.

 

It’s even nice to be stretched out on most of Fuji’s hand, writhing helplessly as he’s slowly, carefully stuffed full.

 

"Mmnn, none of that. That's no fun." Fuji's eyes lid, and he twists his hand, drawing it back enough to carefully let his thumb brush against that _already_ stretched hole, watching it twitch underneath his touch. He supposes he could call this a learning experience, but most of those don't go straight to his dick like this does, and he sucks in a sharp breath of his own when he pushes his hand forward enough to get the tip of his thumb inside. Probably better that he has small hands, actually, though it seems like Niou would like it no matter what. "Fuck," Fuji murmurs, his nails biting into Niou's hip to keep him still when the whole of his hand sinks inside, his chest heaving a little at how fucking _obscene_ it looks, seeing Niou stretched that wide, twitching and squirming with his hand in him to the wrist. "You look _so_ good." 

 

The whimper coming out of Niou’s mouth sounds a lot more like a sob, and his eyes are so tightly squeezed shut that he can feel tears leaking through them, wetting the bedsheet. None of that makes his cock less hard. None of that makes him _want_ it less, no matter that his body is protesting and complaining, muscles giving up. His thighs bunch and tremble, trying to get farther apart, trying to squirm away, and that just makes him wriggle on Fuji’s hand more. 

 

He can barely speak, through the wet, heaving breaths, and when he does, it’s only to groan, “Hold me down-- _make_ me—”

 

If anyone will, it’s Fuji.

 

Yeah, this was definitely a good life choice. 

 

Fuji's belief of that increases tenfold when he reaches up, wraps a hand up into Niou's hair, and _yanks_ , pulling his head back, keeping him _still_ like he's held on a short leash, all while Fuji's hand twists slowly inside of him, fingers stroking _deep_ inside of him, fucking him and stuffing him _full_. "Shut up," he rumbles, and bites down into the curve of Niou's shoulder. Fuji's own hips jerk forward and let his dripping, aching cock slide against the inside of one of Niou's thighs, letting him feel exactly how much this is turning him on as well. "I already know what you want. You're going to come just like this, just rubbing on the bed when you're so full you can't breathe." A _yank_ on Niou's hair pulls him down, making him take another inch still before Fuji is _sure_ there's no way anything else will fit.

 

Well, shit.

 

Niou clenches his teeth, sucking in a hard breath, and tries not to scream. He...fails.

 

At least he manages to muffle it into the pillow, liking more than he should the way it feels to yank against the hand in his hair, to feel like he’s being _hurt_ \--yeah, he’s pretty fucked up sometimes, and he’s not entirely sure why he likes it so much, but even through the tears and the screaming his cock leaks onto the bed.

 

There's a promise kept. Fuji hazily grins, and his hips twitch forward, grinding against Niou's thigh, his fingers wriggling inside of him in slow, even strokes. "If I thought I could fit my cock in you," Fuji rasps against his ear, "I'd put that in, too. Too bad it's already too much for you, Niou-kun." 

 

“I want it.”

 

The words come out as if yanked from his throat, and they sound like they belong to someone else. Niou _feels_ like someone else, someone raw and needy and _fulfilled_ , and every breath he takes is delicious torture. 

 

He tries to open his mouth to ask for _more_ , and it comes out “T-too much, fuck—”

 

Fuji laughs, raw and breathy, and twists his hand inside Niou instead, drawing it back enough to fuck him slowly, _thoroughly_. "You don't need it. Come like this and maybe I'll jerk off on you afterwards, make you lick it up like a _good_ boy."

 

That’s enough to send Niou over the edge with a scream he can’t muffle in time, grinding back on Fuji’s hand, feeling a knuckle dragging over that sweet spot inside that makes him see sounds and taste starlight. “Fuck,” he sobs, his whole body convulsing, making him _squeeze_ around that hand which only makes it hurt _more_. “Fuck, f-fuck—”

 

He’s going to die, with a curling champion’s hand up his ass.

 

Fuji sucks in a long, sharp breath, _feeling_ every twitch and convulsion that goes through Niou's body. He mouths a hot, wet kiss to the back of his neck, slowly, _carefully_ tugging his hand back, wincing at the slick, heated slide of it and how Niou still squeezes tight no matter how much he must _ache_. 

 

"Good, really good," Fuji breathlessly praises, wrapping his slick fingers around his own cock after he grabs at Niou's shoulder, hauling him over onto his back again, and immediately wriggles up to straddle his chest. The sight of him tear-streaked and sobbing, shivering, little more than a melted heap on the bed--it does Fuji in an instant, and it barely takes a stroke of his hand before he's coming, spilling over Niou's face, streaking his cheeks and dripping over his lips. 

 

If there’s anything lewder than this in life, Niou hasn’t done it. Considering that it’s been a pretty eventful 15 years on planet earth, that’s saying a lot.

 

“Shit,” he breathes, and it doesn’t sound like his own voice. It’s high, reedy, breathy and used, and exactly how he feels. He licks his lips shakily, tasting Fuji, and his cock gives a last, furtive little twitch that makes him whimper. His balls _ache_ , something he doesn’t remember ever happening before, and he doesn’t even want to think about his ass.

 

Fuji nods and groans in agreement, and flops to the side a second later, sighing long and deep. "Limit reached," he very, very happily exhales. He rolls back over with a thump, and spares an idle, absent lick to Niou's cheek, tasting himself. "You _really_ don't disappoint."

 

“Neither do you.” Niou doesn’t feel like himself, and he kind of likes it. Slowly, very aware that his body’s limits have been exceeded by a painful amount, he rolls to the side, nestling against Fuji’s front. “Mmphm.” If Fuji doesn’t want to cuddle, well, he can be in charge of rolling him away.

 

"Mmn," is Fuji's distant agreement, flopping an arm and a leg over Niou. He'd ask if Niou was _okay_ , but, well, Niou's been pretty assertive in saying what he wants thus far, so if he wasn't, Fuji is sure he'd hear about it. "Let's not get fugu today."

 

“You _are_ fugu.”

 

Fuji hums thoughtfully, and decides he likes that quite a bit. "You, too. Good fugu."

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

The problem with attending Hyotei High is _attempting_ to attend Hyotei High. 

 

It's autumn, and the logical thing to do is start the process of looking into high schools. Having attended both Hyotei's elementary and middle now, Ootori can't imagine going anywhere else. 

 

 _That_ part of the decision isn't the problem.

 

Nervousness makes his stomach twist itself into knots when he proposes the idea of even _visiting_ the high school to his parents. It's a matter of hushed discussion and tense nerves until they finally agree, and Ootori still is far from relaxed when he arrives at its gates on one of the prospective student orientation days.

 

Maybe he just won't join the tennis club if he makes it into Hyotei High. They made it to the Nationals finals this year, after all, and Ootori is far from confident in thinking he's good enough to get _that_ far.  

 

Shishido likes being prepared.

 

He can handle almost anything, if he’s prepared. Yeah, there are issues, but he’s not the kind of guy that minds them too much, as long as he can prepare for them in advance. He doesn’t care if he has to train twelve, or even twenty hours a day if it means he can be prepared when it counts.

 

He’s not prepared to see Ootori again.

 

At first, the sight of that familiar light head bobbing above the crowd doesn’t seem real. He looks again, and his stomach turns, burning with nerves, shame, and a longing he’s never been able to get rid of, no matter what he’s done (and shit, he _hates_ failing). 

 

He feels like the biggest dork imaginable when he actually _hides_ , ducking into a hallway and pulling his hat around to cover his face. 

 

(Then again, his hair is longer now. Maybe Ootori won’t recognize him. That shouldn’t make him feel like throwing up.)

 

It’s Atobe--fucking Atobe, of _course_ \--who ruins everything. Shishido’s never hated someone he likes so much as he does Atobe on a daily basis. 

 

“Ootori!” Atobe calls, and Shishido doesn’t duck fast enough when one elegantly manicured hand shoots out, grabbing him by the shoulder. “My friend, ah, and Ootoris senior! Welcome to Hyotei High! Shishido, look who it—”

 

Shishido wrenches his shoulder free, face burning. Now he _can’t_ run away, not when Atobe will _notice_ and god damn him, there’s no way he’ll notice without _saying_ something. He turns, shoving his hands in his pockets, and doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “I’m late for club activities,” he mutters. “I’ll catch up later.”

 

It's about as bad as Ootori thought it would be, of course. 

 

 _Breathing, not blushing. No wanting to run in the opposite direction and forget about all of this_. 

 

Ootori almost does anyway, even after all the effort involved in letting his parents even _come_. 

 

"Atobe-san," he manages, voice somehow level, bowing his head. Better, less awkward, if he doesn't even look at Shishido or acknowledge him, especially with his parents lurking nearby. They seem equally satisfied with that, turning to chat with someone else's relatives, and Ootori feels a little bit less like he is going to pass out. "Your team had a great showing at the Nationals this year. I'm sorry we didn't get to speak, but it was sort of chaotic…"

 

“Never mind any of that!” 

 

Shishido wants to punch Atobe’s cheerfully grinning face. He looks so honestly _happy_ to see Ootori--what reason, what _right_ does he have to be so happy? Shishido isn’t especially concerned with whether his own concerns are valid. 

 

It’s better if he doesn’t look at Ootori. He’s _definitely_ not going to look at Ootori. 

 

God, he’s gotten taller. The lines of his face are more pronounced, that fine bone structure emerging under the last vestiges of baby fat--he’s going to be unbearably handsome, soon. 

 

(He always has been.)

 

A little desperate and not quite in the right frame of mind, Shishido grabs the nearest door and launches himself inside.

 

Well, shit.

 

“Shishido is, ah, on clean-up duty today,” Atobe says cheerfully, with a tiny hitch in his voice that no one who didn’t know him as well as the tennis team would ever pick up. “That’s definitely why he’s in the cleaning cupboard.”

 

Ootori prides himself on strangling the odd, stressed noise that wells up in his throat down to a minimum. "Ah…ah."

 

It's a problem, remembering how sweetly awkward Shishido could be at times--even worse now, because his hair is growing back out a bit and it's like when they first met and--

 

"Atobe-san, can you show me the tennis courts?" It's out of desperation, really, because he _can't_ be around both his parents and other people and _Shishido_ all at once. "I'm still not sure if I'm going to keep playing, but…" 

 

Shishido kind of wants to die. 

 

“Magnifico!” Atobe says, delighted. “I won’t hear any of that nonsense about not playing, of course. Ah, and may I interest your lovely parents in a glass of champagne in the lounge? I’m sure Kochou-sensei will be more than happy to see to their every need. Kabagi.”

 

“Uss.”

 

“Please escort our important guests to the lounge. Make certain they are treated with every possible consideration. After all, for a student it may be the courts, but it’s Hyotei’s stunning academic reputation that draws your parents here, eh?”

 

If there were enough room in the closet to turn around, Shishido think she might have tried to curl up on a shelf and pretend to have disappeared. As it is, he can barely stand still, pressed up against shelves of cleaning supplies facefirst, with the door squashing him in.

 

Ootori strangles another sound, because what in the world is talking when Atobe does a pretty solid job for all of them. The one thing he _can_ eventually manage is: "Um…Shishido-san? Maybe it's okay if you don't worry about…um, cleaning duty, right now." What if he dies of chemical inhalation?

 

There is no way he can play tennis at this school. _No way._

 

No matter how, well, _lightheaded_ he might be, Shisido is pretty certain that staying in the closet is a great idea.

 

Finally (grumpily) he reaches for the door handle.

 

Half a minute of panicked scrabbling later, Atobe forces a white smile, watching Ootori’s parents disappear into the lounge. “Ah. It appears the door only locks from the outside.”

 

“Just let me die,” comes the muffled, defeated sound from inside the cleaning closet.

 

“Not to worry!” Atobe ignores him handily, pulling out a master ring of keys and flipping through several. “Just be a moment.”

 

"I'm really sorry, Shishido-san," Ootori somewhat pitifully calls to him. "I should have warned you I would be coming--I didn't know if I should or not, but maybe you would have been less surprised and this wouldn't have been so…"

 

"Ahh, is Shishido stuck in the closet again?"

 

That Kansai accent never stops being _jarring_ , and after so long in hearing it, Ootori has to sort of bodily shake it off before looking back at Oshitari with a certain nervous trepidation. Oshitari tsks, pushing himself off of the doorframe to drift into the lounge. "After all that time we spent getting him out of it." 

 

Atobe shoots Oshitari a look. _Not nice_ , he tries to say. _They don’t even know we know, shut up._ It doesn’t stop the corners of his mouth from twitching. Ah, well, what’s a King to do?

 

Finally, the right key turns in the lock, and the door opens. Shishido tumbles slightly, catching himself on a shelf and taking a deep breath in the second before the shelf collapses and two dozen tubs of plastic bags, facial handkerchiefs, and disinfectant falls onto his head. “It’s fine,” he says, struggling up onto his hands and knees. “I’m just going to...get back in.”

 

"Shishido-san!" Ootori immediately darts forward, hastening to help the other boy up. "Please don't do that, you might die of chemical inhalation or this might happen again--" Maybe _touching him_ was sort of a bad idea, considering how it makes him swallow hard and will his hands not to linger too long...

 

Oshitari's eyes roll to the ceiling. "He's in whether he's _physically_ in or not," he mutters underneath his breath, delicately pushing his glasses up his nose. 

 

“Stop explaining your own jokes,” Atobe says lightly, clapping Oshitari on the shoulder. “Shishido, show our friend to the tennis court once you’re...cleaned up.” Oshitari is going to leave them alone, too, even if Atobe has to drag him.

 

Shishido struggles to his feet, kicking a bucket of cleaner in frustration. He doesn’t look at Ootori, not yet, not when just those familiar hands on his arms make him want to kick a wall—

 

_—or disappear into the back of the school, going to find one of their old special hiding places, practicing until they’re sore and aching, furtive, wanting looks getting stronger and more frequent, until he’s pushing Choutarou up against a wall and feeling the long, lean heat of him pressed together with his own, kissing him urgent and hungry and as if he’ll die if he doesn’t—_

 

Shishido shrugs off the hands, face and the tips of his ears burning. “I’m fine. You don’t want your parents to see.”

 

Ootori flushes and jerks his touch away, a paranoid glance shot over his shoulder. To his relief, they're at least completely _gone_ , and--ah. Oh. Atobe is dragging Oshitari out now, too, and that means--

 

His face couldn't get any redder, and he sort of wants to join Shishido back in that cleaning closet. "Think there's room for both of us in there?" he miserably asks, his shoulders slumping. "I'm really sorry, Shishido-san." He doesn't even know what he's apologizing for at this point, but there has to be _something_. 

 

“You didn’t do anything.”

 

If anyone should be sorry, it isn’t Ootori. It isn’t Ootori, who gave him another chance, who put himself on the line every day, who’s suffered because of it more than once. “I mean--I mean it wasn’t your fault.”

 

He pulls off his cap for a minute, raking his hair back before jamming it on again, properly backwards this time. “You...you should go look at stuff,” he mutters, and folds his arms, looking away. No, he’s not going to say anything else.

 

“But I guess—” No, he’s going to stop talking. “I guess if you want to, I don’t know, talk or something—” No, this is a bad idea. “There’s the tennis shed, no one ever goes in there at this time.” Dammit, maybe Ootori will say no.

 

Ootori knows he should say _no_ , for both of their sakes. The idea of being properly alone with Shishido is enough to make jittery, his stomach turning odd little flips, and--he shouldn't. He really shouldn't. It isn't _right_ , to want something like this so much. It isn't _good_ for either of them, and has only brought trouble before and if someone does catch them again--

 

"I'd like that." His mouth just won't listen to his brain, though, and Ootori swallows hard around the next words, trying to make them stop when they just _won't_ and ah, Shishido's hair _has_ gotten longer and he sort of wants to touch it--"It's…it's been awhile." And quieter still: "I've missed you."

 

Shishido’s stomach ties itself in a knot. He’d thought, before it had all happened, that there’d never be anything he’d want more than to win Nationals as a regular member of the tennis team. 

 

Back then, he hadn’t known how much it would hurt to not have Ootori around anymore. God, how lame. 

 

“You too. Come on.” Better to get away from all these people before someone sees how fucking gay they are. Shishido sort of remembers a time before he hated a part of himself.

 

The courts aren’t too far. Shishido can see Atobe and Oshitari--of course they’d start playing a practice game for no reason, the weirdoes. At least they’re a long way from the sheds at the other end of the stadium. He opens the door, and once it’s closed, finally lets himself have a proper look at Ootori.

 

 _Dammit_.

 

“Hi.”

 

"Hi." Ootori looks at anything other than Shishido. The trophy shelves, the lockers, the rather ridiculously polished floor--"I thought…I'd get to talk to you at the Nationals, but…" This is painfully, pathetically awkward, but he's _never_ been good at bringing things up, especially not elephants in the room that have been weighing on them for what feels like forever.

 

“Yeah, well. I saw…” Shishido swallows, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Your folks were at Nationals. I didn’t want to make it worse.” Not when they’d _finally_ agreed to let him stay at Hyotei and not transfer to a Catholic school.

 

"That…wouldn't have been good," Ootori admits, his eyes briefly flicking to Shishido's face before sliding away again. "If they let me go here, I'm not sure if they'll let me keep playing tennis, but…I'm trying to convince them. They'd much rather me go forward with music instead, but…that doesn't…" _That doesn't have you._

 

Shishido’s face snaps up, indignant. “But--but you’re _great_ at tennis!” _And you don’t even have to work for it._ That’s an old hurt, and something that he’s finally letting go of. It’s hard to be angry about that when he’s so much more angry about not having Ootori _here_. “And you love it. It’s a young man’s game, can’t you do music when you’re old?” He doesn’t step forward, but his hand twitches in Ootori’s direction before he jams it in his pocket firmly.

 

Ootori flinches a bit, more from his own urge to reach out and grab Shishido's hand than anything. "They think the team is a bad influence on me," he softly answers, and adds with a nervous laugh, "Mostly Atobe-san. They think he's a little…um…flamboyant? And then, of course…" _There's you_. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

The anger boils over a little, and Shishido turns, slamming his fist into the wall, once. “I hate being the problem,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “I don’t--you _should_ play tennis, you’re _good_ at it, you _love_ it, I _miss you_ —”

 

That was a mistake, and Shishido scrubs at his face with the back of his hand, swallowing around a lump in his throat. “Fuck this,” he mutters, reaching for the door. “I’m not gonna fuck it up again—”

 

"Shishido-san--"

 

This is the worst idea. Shishido knows it, too, judging by how fast he moves to leave, but neither of them have ever been the _best_ at making good decisions. 

 

Superior height and longer legs come in handy sometimes, no matter how it makes Shishido mad, but Ootori uses them both to his advantage for once to catch up and slam a hand against the door over Shishido's head, stopping him from opening it. "This is going to make you really angry to hear," he quietly prefaces, "but I don't _care_ that much about playing tennis, as long as I can at least go to the same school as you." 

 

God, Shishido hates (loves) having to look up into Ootori’s face.

 

His own face burns with a thousand things he hates, with his shame and his hunger and the _heat_ of Ootori near him, and….

 

Well, he’s always been impulsive, even when it’s a terrible idea.

 

He grabs hold of Ootori’s shirt and yanks him close with strong arms, breathing fast already from the fact that they’re so close, that he wants so _much_. He blinks, fast and hard. “Choutarou…”

 

_‘You should keep playing tennis.’ Those should be the next words I say._

 

Instead, Shishido stares helplessly up into that familiar face, noticing every line that’s better defined, every hair that’s longer, every tiny nick that hadn’t been there the last time they were like this. 

 

Any minute now, he’ll find his voice again.

 

Ootori swallows hard. 

 

Shishido has a way of making his normal, coherent thoughts fly out the window. There's no one else at _all_ that has ever made him like this. He's a good student, a talented athlete and artist and musician and a _good_ boy--things pounded into his head by his parents that he _should_ be, by every one of their standards and God's standards and--

 

Shishido shouldn't factor into that equation at all. 

 

But they're here and Shishido is warm and solid and he'd probably hate hearing this so Ootori never tells him, but he's _pretty,_ even with his hair not as long as it used to be and there's no _helping it_. Ootori's skin prickles hot and his hands shake, but he grabs at Shishido's hips with long, strong fingers all the same, bodily lifting him, shoving him back into the door again, and kissing him hard and hungry before he lets himself think about it any more.

 

Shishido vaguely remembers that he used to hate it when Ootori picked him up. He’s not _short_ , Ootori’s just freakishly tall, and it’s rude of him to throw around his weight like that or something, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t _care_ , he just wants to feel those hands on him all the time.

 

Shishido lets out a strangled grunt that sounds like _yes_ , hands fisting so hard in Ootori’s shirt he can feel his fingernails gouging tiny holes in the fabric. It’s _nice_ fabric, prissy and clean and pressed, like Ootori is a _nice boy_ , prissy and clean and Shishido wants to bruise those pretty lips with his own.

 

His toes dangle above the floor, and Shishido scrabbles with his legs, getting them around Ootori’s waist--just for purchase, to make sure he doesn’t fall. He gasps for air between hot, wet kisses, hungry and grasping. “Chou—” 

 

He can’t even get the other boy’s name out, unable to stop kissing him even for that long. This feels like it did when everything was good, when just looking at Ootori was enough to make him happy.

 

He’s pretty sure being happy felt something like this.

 

Ootori groans, shuddering when he shoves closer, their bodies streamlined and his hands too-tight around Shishido's hips when he sucks on his lower lip, kisses him hard enough that he can't breathe and the slide of his tongue is just _obscene_. It makes him lightheaded to be this close and kissing Shishido again, and the pound of his pulse makes him deaf to anything else for a moment, except for the rumbling gasp of what might have been his name. 

 

"Shi…nnh, Shishido--" Shishido is nothing but concentrated heat and muscle and _energy_ squirming in his arms, and Ootori breaks away from his mouth to gasp into his neck instead, sucking on the first patch of skin he can find, his hands sliding down to more firmly get a hold on him by grabbing his ass. He can't even feel ashamed of it, not when he feels Shishido arch in his hold. "Missed you so much, I--" 

 

Shishido wants _everything_.

 

It’s worse now than it had been the first time they kissed, because now he knows exactly what he’s missing, exactly what he wants, and exactly what he’s going to have even if it kills him.

 

He lets go of Ootori’s poor shirt, wrapping arms around him, one raking through short light hair, the other scratching at that broad back through his shirt--god, he loves the _size_ of Ootori, the improbable height and width and easy strength there. 

 

He mutters something embarrassing against Ootori’s lips, then bites them as if to take the words back, sucking on Ootori’s bottom lip as his thighs _squeeze_ around the other boy, bringing him in closer. He’s hard already, always is, but for the first time he just wants to _kiss_ for a while, remind himself that Ootori’s here, still kissing him, still wanting him despite everything.

 

Ootori is so, so grateful that his logical, coherent thoughts click off around Shishido. Otherwise he'd be disappointed with himself, panicking about _who_ he's disappointing, but--it's _Shishido_ , how and why should that ever be a _disappointment?_

 

He shudders when his own hips lurch forward, grinding slow, but no less urgent circles, sighing out a breath through his nose when he feels how hard Shishido is, too. There's something _reassuring_ in knowing they're both this depraved and that they're in this together, both wanting one another so _much_ no matter what. He kisses Shishido again, dragging a hand up his back, shoving his hat off and finally giving into the urge to rake his fingers through his hair, twisting it up into his fingers. There's actually enough to properly grab now, and that makes Ootori's toes curl, his fingers kneading harder into Shishido's ass. "You..ahh, you look so good," he mumbles, eyes fluttering at the hard, aching slide of their hips against one another. "Feel good, too--"

 

Yeah, Ootori’s parents and the rest of the world can suck Shishido’s dick for all he cares. 

 

Oh, he’ll probably care tomorrow, or once they’ve stopped moving like this, but for now that heated rebellion kicks in, and all he cares about is _Choutarou, Choutarou._

 

He grunts, fingers digging into Ootori’s shoulders, clutching at him when he feels those long-fingered hands _squeezing_ his ass. It’s easy to remember how it had felt, how they’d been bucking and writhing and panting together, all the times they’d made each other beg and curse and try not to scream. 

 

His head tips back into Ootori’s hands, and he shudders. One of his legs raises up higher, up around Ootori’s waist, the other slung around his hips to pull him closer. He feels _good_ there, stiff and hot and ready. Shishido’s breath catches in his throat at the drag of it across his own, and he lurches forward, grasping at Ootori’s shoulders. “L-let me--I’ll be the pervert, I don’t care, can I—”

 

He hates that it’s a _question_ again, whether Ootori will let him.

 

Ootori's face flushes hot, his mouth going dry and he can't _think_ for a moment beyond _Shishido is so hard against me, Shishido's neck is right there for me to bite and I'm going to come before he even_ really _touches me and this is better than I remembered--_

 

"I…" He swallows hard and rapidly and he gives into the urge to bite Shishido's neck after all, the scrape of his teeth leaving a bruise for sure. "Whatever you want," he groans, hiking Shishido up harder against him, biting into his own lip at the way Shishido _wriggles_. Is that even allowed? "J-just tell me what you want to do." It's perverted and _wrong_ and he wants to hear it more than anything.

 

Shishido had thought his face couldn’t go any redder than when he was trapped in the cleaning cabinet, but he was wrong. He pants for air, hips rubbing helplessly against Ootori’s cock, seeking some kind of relief when there isn’t any for him, not from the kind of thing they’re doing. 

 

“I want—” Ootori wants him to say it, and Shishido’s face _hurts_ from being so red. It isn’t as if Ootori will deny him if he doesn’t say it, but watching how hard he gets, how turned on from hearing it, makes Shishido _want_ to accommodate him. 

 

He swallows hard, breathing so heavily he’s almost drooling, or maybe that’s from how much he _wants_. “Want—” He reaches down, grabbing at the bulge between his legs, and his fingers start trembling. “L-let me lick it. I forget how it tastes.” 

 

A lie. He remembers every morning, right before he fully wakes up to a world where they’re not fucking.

 

Ootori's knees nearly buckle.

 

It takes _effort_ not to just drop Shishido, even more effort not to come right there just from hearing it after _so long_ , and he's as flushed as Shishido, feeling the sweat trickling down his back from sheer force of _will_ to stay upright and set Shishido back onto his feet gently. "Y-you're…the way you used to do it, I still remember," he rasps, having to brace a hand back against the door to steady himself. Ootori can't _help_ but use the other hand to rub his thumb against the side of Shishido's face, and then blushing terribly, to the point his vision spins, over those kiss-bruised, slick lips, his own breath heaving in his chest when his thumb slides past them just a _little._ "Your mouth, it's still j-just as hot…"

 

Shishido’s eyes slide closed, and he moans around Ootori’s thumb, sucking it into his mouth, teasing the tip of it with his tongue and biting down gently on the base to keep it in place. He’s so hard he can feel every fiber of his underwear straining, and he has to brace himself against the door to keep from falling over.

 

With one last suck--god, he loves Ootori’s fingers in his mouth, always has--he lets go of that thumb, sliding down to kneel on the ground. He reaches into his shorts absently, rubbing himself a few times to take the edge off, before yanking inaccurately at Ootori’s crisp pressed pants. “You better be really hard,” he mutters, “not like that time in Chiba, that was—”

 

Irrelevant, because Ootori’s as hard as Shishido’s ever seen him. He gulps slightly--it’s definitely bigger than he remembers, damn growth spurt, has his own grown at all? He doesn’t _think_ so--and wraps a hand around it, mouth open, tongue out as he leans forward to suck eagerly on the head. The _taste_ of Ootori slides down his tongue, and if he hadn’t been kneeling, Shishido’s knees would have buckled at the rush of blood to his cock.

 

Ootori _whimpers_. The sight of Shishido on his knees, the slick, sloppy drag of his tongue and lips--it makes him suck in a ragged breath through his mouth, his fingers curling into a fist against the door as he slumps forward, back bowed and legs trembling. "Sh--" Maybe that's an attempt at Shishido's name, or maybe it's a curse, he's not really even sure at this point, not with how his cock _throbs_ , pulsing against Shishido's tongue, dripping and eager when his hips cant forward on their own accord.

 

Maybe it's rude and really, he should just let Shishido do whatever he wants, but Ootori can't _help_ but wrap his other hand up into his hair, _trying_ not to pull or push but it's hard not to, all things considered. "C…can you--" He dares to look down again, at the way Shishido's lips look stretched around just _that_ much of his cock, and Ootori thinks he's going to faint from how hot his body flashes. He groans, and his hips jerk forward, shoving just a bit more into the slick heat of Shishido's mouth. "T-take a little bit more, _please_ , you're so good--"

 

Shit, Ootori’s definitely grown. That’s all kinds of not fair, and it shouldn’t make Shishido as horny as it does, but whatever. He pulls his hand out of his shorts, cock aching at the loss of touch, and braces both hands on Ootori’s hips instead. Feeling those familiar hands in his hair reminds him of when he’d had his _good_ hair, before he’d started failing at everything, and the first time he’d sucked cock like this. Ootori’s hands had been more nervous then, fluttery and demanding in sharp tugs with soft apologies following, and the memory still gets him through the night sometimes.

 

His hands curl in the open waistband of those pleated pants, giving him enough purchase to try and do as Ootori’s pleading so nicely, letting his jaw fall open and sliding forward--until he gags hard, harder than he remembers, and he pulls back to cough, eyes watering fiercely. 

 

“M’fine,” he snaps before Ootori has a chance to say anything or apologize, and takes his cock again, sealing his lips around it no matter how his throat spasms and tickles. He’s just out of practice, that’s all. Dammit, he _hates_ not being good at something.

 

Hearing Shishido _gag_ , watching the hard swallow and spasm of his throat--none of that should make him even closer, but it does, and Ootori sucks in a sharp, ragged breath, apologizing underneath his breath all the same. He can feel himself dripping all over Shishido's tongue, harder still and twitching with every slide of his mouth around him. 

 

"T-that's--" His voice is unsteady, thready, and Ootori bites his lip, splaying his fingers gently against the back of Shishido's head, the muscles of his thighs and stomach bunching when he _watches_ the way Shishido has to _work_ to take more of him into his mouth. "Just…just like that--" He's going to die at this rate, for sure--and Ootori thinks he probably has when the head of his cock bumps just a little against the back of Shishido's throat and he's _done_ , yanking a hand up to cover his own mouth and stifle the obscene noise he makes when he comes, already wanting to apologize for not warning him but too far beyond words to _bother_ when he's filling Shishido's mouth and ah, god, he can't look, not when the most perverted thing in the world is seeing it dripping over Shishido's lips, too. 

 

Shishido sucks in a breath through his nose, and coughs, trying to swallow and missing most of it, and _shit_ that’s messy. 

 

He doesn’t wipe it away, even the tips of his ears burning at just how much he loves this, even if he knows this is the time to start hating himself. He can put it off for a little longer, at least. 

 

He bows his head forward, licking his lips, resting his forehead against Ootori’s hip. Slowly, but no less urgently, he reaches back into his shorts, quick furtive movements of his wrist to bring himself off. “Choutarou,” he rasps, voice hoarse from the gagging, “just--say my name or something, quick—”

 

Ootori groans, his own cock giving another, desperate twitch. _Shishido didn't wipe it off, he's jerking himself off while he's still on his knees in front of me_. "R…Ryou--" Saying his name like this, when he's wobbly on his feet, still shivering and bracing against the door with one hand, the other stroking through Shishido's hair--it's all far, far too much. "You're _perfect_ \--"

 

Shishido lets his head fall back, mouth parted and _messy_ , his eyes half-closed as he groans and comes into his own hand. It’s all too good, too intense after too long apart, and he’s shuddering down to the base of his spine as he slowly milks his cock into his hand. 

 

Another shaky breath, and he licks his lips, leaning forward to nuzzle against one toned thigh. He doesn’t dare speak, suddenly terrified that it’ll ruin everything, that Ootori will leave again, that he’ll be _alone_ again, with his sticky hand in his shorts.

 

Ootori gives up on the idea of standing when his knees wobble again, and slowly, he sinks down to the floor next to Shishido, grabbing him and dragging him against his chest no matter the sticky mess of it all. He might be squeezing a bit too tight, actually, but he doesn't _care_. Shishido won't mind, anyway. "S…sorry for making you such a mess," he mumbles. "You're just…" _Really good at that._ The guilt for liking it so much will come soon enough, no doubt.

 

Shishido butts his head firmly into Ootori’s chest, curling up there defiantly, trying to wipe off the mess on his own shirt instead of Ootori’s. He does his own laundry, but knows for a fact Ootori doesn’t. Once he’s confident in the cleanliness of his face, he nuzzles into the base of Ootori’s neck, inhaling deeply. “I like it.” Kind of a perverted admission, but not worse than doing it.

 

Ootori can feel his face flush anew, and he squeezes Shishido all the tighter for it. "Your hair looks nice," he quietly says, and he turns his face into it to accent the words, breathing in the scent of it slow and deep. That's a _little_ less perverted, at least, and his pulse is starting to regulate and let him remember what it's like to be a person and not a slave to lust. He releases Shishido for a fleeting moment, just to tuck himself back into his pants and smooth his clothing down. "Are you going to grow it out long again?" 

 

Shishido takes a deep breath, his first in what seems like years. Everything is cooling now, his blood and the sweat and the sticky mess all over him. “Yeah, think so. You have to take off your cap a lot in high school and I don’t like the way it gets everywhere, so it’ll be easier to tie it back.” _And I remember how much you used to like it._ “You got taller, dammit.”

 

A long-suffering sigh follows that. "I know. It's really annoying, I wish I'd stop." _Though it's sort of nice, being taller than you; makes you easier to hold._ Ootori sucks in a long, steadying breath, and tugs Shishido back, stuffing him neatly against his chest once more. 

 

Shishido blinks rapidly several times, until his stupid body remembers that he doesn’t _cry_ , that’s weak and girly. He nestles against Ootori’s chest, breathing him in, starting to relax against the slowing rhythm of the other boy’s heart. 

 

He swallows hard, trying to think of something to say that won’t make Ootori let him go. “I got you something.”

 

"You didn't have to." Ootori wants to know what it is (it's from Shishido, so maybe more than he should), but that probably requires letting him _go_ , and right now, when he has his face half-buried into his hair and arms wrapped tight around him, that doesn't sound appealing. He huffs and blinks hard. "I'll…let you go in a minute."

 

“Don’t!”

 

Shishido fists his hand in Ootori’s shirt, suddenly panicked. “It’s dumb, shit, it’s just a fucking action figure, it’s not even _here_ , I just...wanted you to know.” His heart thuds dully against his ribcage, and he tries to calm it down. _God, I’m so fucking gay._

 

Ootori briefly considers tucking Shishido underneath his shirt and keeping him there forever. Maybe saying that he's acquired a growth will work. "…Give it to me when I start school here in the spring." Maybe he can't stuff Shishido into his shirt, but he can promise that much. _One way or another._ Ootori exhales, inhales, and gives a strand of Shishido's hair a gentle tug. "Your language has gotten really bad again." Even if he's participating in a path leading them both to perversion, the _least_ he can do is keep Shishido from talking like a street thug.

 

Shishido scowls. Hopefully, he scowls so hard Ootori can feel it through his shirt, against his chest. “No one around who cares,” he mutters, and means it about more than just his language. Then, so it doesn’t seem quite so pathetic, he adds, “Gakuto’s a bad influence.”

 

"He should stop it, too, then." Though that's a lost cause, or so Ootori has found. He nuzzles his face down into Shishido's hair again. "I care," he quietly adds. "A lot. Not just about that, though."

 

Deep breath in, deep breath out, and don’t say anything too embarrassing. “I...I know. It’s…” He grits his teeth, not wanting to sound as _stupid_ as he knows he’s going to. “Don’t feel bad. I was afraid you’d feel bad about...about not talking to me. So don’t.”

 

"I'm sorry, I feel bad anyway." Ootori sighs into Shishido's hair. "If…if it wouldn't get _you_ into so much trouble…I don't think I'd care as much. I just…don't want them to tell your parents, and make things difficult for you." 

 

“Stupid, of course I don’t want them to tell my parents!” Shishido wriggles a little, turning around in Ootori’s lap, nuzzling the other side of his face under the other boy’s chin. “Did you get in like...a _lot_ of trouble?”

 

"I'm _still_ in a lot of trouble," Ootori mumbles, and swings his arms low about Shishido's hips. "Probably for the rest of forever."

 

“Yeah...I kinda figured.” That’s what happens, he guesses, when your traditional religious parents walk in on you sleeping naked curled up with another naked boy. “But they didn’t...I mean, are you okay? I don’t know what Christs do, do they beat you or starve you?”

 

" _Shishido-san_." Ootori has half the mind to smack him for that, but settles for pinching him instead--which equally doesn't work, because there's no fat to pinch, just muscle, and so Ootori scowls. "They don't do anything like that. I'm _fine_. Just…they're even more protective now, and don't let me do _anything_ , and mostly I'm bored out of my mind and missing you a lot." He sighs. "That's all." 

 

“Well, how the hell would I know?” Shishido snaps, turning his head to bite Ootori’s shoulder. “I just wanted to make sure you’re _okay_.” And that he hadn’t been sacrificed to some weird Jesus Christ ritual like in the manga.

 

"I'm…as okay as I can be." _Without being around you_. It was going to be bad enough with a year difference between them and not being in the same _school_ , but at least that would have been…manageable. Ootori frowns and tugs on his hair. "I'm more worried about you. Atobe-san isn't being too…Atobe-ish, is he?"

 

Shishido smiles briefly, even though Ootori can’t see. Especially because he can’t see. That would be embarrassing. “He’s better now, actually. He’s busy a lot touring the pro tour circuit, I guess he’s getting really into being a sponsor. Whatever, it means he doesn’t harass us as much.”

 

"Ah, well, that's good at least." Ootori sets his chin atop Shishido's head. "Your doubles game is still really going well. I saw your matches at the Nationals." Easier said than done being not-jealous that Shishido played with someone else, but it's unavoidable. 

 

That’s another scowl. “I didn’t _want_ to play with Nabutame-sempai. Atobe said that my doubles game was going to suffer while I was waiting for y—while I was playing singles. I guess he thinks you’re playing tennis next year.”

 

"If I can…then I will." Ootori butts his head against Shishido's gently. "It's more important that I just get to _go_ here, though. Maybe we can still play together, just not in the tennis club."

 

Shishido’s hand thunks against Ootori’s chest, frustrated, helpless. “I thought you were going to step up your tennis game and catch up to me. I thought we were going to be _invincible_. I’m—” He doesn’t like apologizing, but this is Choutarou, so he takes a deep breath and does it anyway. “I’m sorry I led you down this path. It shouldn’t have been like this for you.”

 

Ootori definitely pinches him this time, right on the side where he knows Shishido is ticklish. "I would appreciate it if you didn't take all of the blame, especially when you were curled up with _me_ in my _bed_. We were both at fault, Shishido-san, and what's done is done."

 

Shishido jerks hard, knee going wild into Ootori’s ribcage, and an immensely un-manly shriek comes from his mouth. “H-hey! I was _trying_ to _apologize_.” His face crumples into a scowl, and he folds his arms. “You should be grateful I took the blame. Just tell your parents it was all my fault and date a nice girl, they’ll let you go to school wherever you want.” 

 

Even if the idea makes him want to throw up, and he asks, hesitantly, belying his supposed “toughness,” “You... _are_ you dating a girl? I mean, you should, but…”

 

The stare Ootori fixes upon him is one of utter and complete horror. "No! Of course not! I mean--I…I d-definitely don't want to and there's no way I'd be _allowed to_ anyway…and I'd _never_ just blame this on you." Shishido is right, of course; if he did something like that, his parents would forget about it and move on (for the most part). But that wouldn't be _right_ , and that isn't what he _wants_ , besides. "You're… _you're_ not dating a girl, are you?" 

 

“Tch.” 

 

Probably the way he flinches at the question says a lot more than anything else he said would. “Nah. Can’t really.” He could, probably, but it would be a lie. 

 

He shakes out his hair, running a hand back through the length of it. It’s _just barely_ enough to get into a ponytail, and he sighs for a moment, remembering his old hair. At least it grows fast. “You could just turn into a girl and solve all our problems, I guess.”

 

"Would you still like me, if I were a girl?" Ootori can't help but be curious, if they're going to talk about ridiculous hypotheticals. He eyeballs Shishido, considering, and then decides not to comment on how Shishido could probably pass for one much, much easier. 

 

Shishido doesn’t flinch. Definitely. “Sure. Would make everything easier.” He makes a face. “You’d better not have huge boobs, though. I hate those.”

 

"Most of the women in my family do," Ootori says apologetically. 

 

“Bleh. Guess you’d better stay a guy, then.” Shishido tilts his head, and nudges up between Ootori’s legs. “You think it’s the same? Are all the guys in your family big here?”

 

Ootori flushes hot at that. "I don't _know_. But it seems like it would be easier if I wasn't," he mumbles. "Sorry."

 

“It _would_ be easier if you weren’t so big,” Shishido says, purposely ignoring the rest of what Ootori’s saying. He’s not even fooling himself; they wouldn’t be here, grasping and needing and loving, if Ootori weren't a man. He’s known that since he was about nine, now. “We could do it without so much lotion.”

 

Ah. He's going to die from his face being so red. " _Shishido-san_ , _"_ Ootori hisses, and at the same time, grabs for him to squish him back into his chest. "Do you _really_ have to say things like that?" The problem, more than anything, is that it turns him on and _that's not fair_.

 

Shishido blinks. “What? It _would_ be easier. Ehh, you wouldn’t be so careless about it if it was you on that end, Choutarou.” He _does_ like it when he can make the other boy blush, for a change.

 

He's definitely going to die. "I…I've _told you_ , if you wanted to do that, we could, it's only fair…" The problem with that is neither of them really _want it_ that way very much. Shishido shouldn't be allowed to tease him with that in mind. _Rude_.

 

Shishido nudges Ootori with his shoulder, stretching his arms up and feeling them creak a little. “Mm, wouldn’t be the same. I’m not huge down there like you. It’s kinda freakish.”

 

"It is _not!_ It's…it's _proportionate_ , just like yours is." Ootori huffs, releasing Shishido with a frown ( _not_ a pout). 

 

Shishido grins, reaching over and giving a pointed _squeeze_. “Hmm...nope. Definitely huge. Trust me, I probably know it better than you by now.” God, he kind of remembers this, how it felt to tease and touch and just _be_ together without feeling sick and worried all the time.

 

Ootori squeaks, batting Shishido's hands away and scooting several inches backwards. "D-don't just _grab it_." He doesn't sound that upset, all things considered. "You've gotten really rude while I've been away; maybe I _should_ tell Atobe-san that more etiquette classes are a good idea…" 

 

“Don’t you dare! I’ll stab you with a dessert fork!” If he can figure out which one that is.

 

Shishido launches himself at the other boy, grabbing him in a wrestling hold with a laugh, trying to get his other hand around to tickle his sides.

 

Trying not to shriek is a lost battle, though it's usually easy enough win this sort of thing by rolling over and using his weight to keep Shishido pinned. It works well enough as per usual, and Ootori sighs in relief as he flops down, squishing Shishido underneath his weight to the tennis shed's floor. "Shishido-san, you make a good pillow."

 

“That’s not a wrestling move!” Shishido wheezes out the words, struggling under the sudden weight on top of him. “That’s--definitely illegal!” Never mind that he was trying to tickle the other boy.

 

"Grabbing between my legs was an illegal start to all of this," Ootori solemnly informs him. "So anything goes."

 

“You’re in an illegal weight class,” Shishido gasps, slapping the ground in surrender. “You should be--only wrestling other giants.”

 

Ootori definitely pouts then. "I'm not _that_ tall. I mean, comparatively, but…" He rolls away with a solid thump. "We'd work really well in doubles now, though. I mean, even more so." 

 

Shishido doesn’t bother getting up, just struggles up onto his forearms, peering up at Ootori. “I got faster. You could just sit on the baseline, I’d hit everything from any angle. We’d be unstoppable.”

 

"Mm. My reach is better now--I haven't had a good partner since you graduated, though, so it's kind of moot. We couldn't even win the Prefectuals this year." 

 

“I _know_ , it was _pathetic_.” Shishido rolls up, then drapes himself over Ootori’s back, nuzzling into his neck. The thought that _this could be taken away at any second_ is powerful, and makes him less suspect than he should be, climbing, grabbing, clinging to him at every turn. “I’ll stop in a minute,” he says quietly, against the skin of Ootori’s neck. “Just let me be like this for a minute, then you can go.”

 

"…You really don't have to say things like that," Ootori murmurs, lidding his eyes and resting his head down onto his arms. "I like it." He _does_ , no matter how he can't help but feel guilty at the same time. There's nothing better than being with Shishido like this, and he feels ashamed for thinking that way, but… "We could try meeting up sometime. Without my parents knowing, obviously."

 

Shishido snorts. “What, are you going to take me to a Love Hotel or something?” He regrets the snap in the second after it leaves his mouth, and his arms tighten around Ootori’s neck. “Maybe that old warehouse where we used to practice. If you can get out, I mean. I heard that Christs don’t get out of bed on Sundays, we can do it then.”

 

"Christians," Ootori patiently sighs out. "That's the word. Christians. And how many times did I practice with you on Sunday in the past?" He turns his head, just enough to look back at Shishido. "We could meet up at the old warehouse and…I don't know, actually play tennis again. I really miss being able to play with you."

 

Shishido sighs out a breath, feeling something ache inside him. “I miss that, too. I had to come up with my own training camp and obstacle course. I…” _I kept turning to say something to you, but you weren’t there._

 

“If the Sunday thing was a lie, when is good? I’ll go whenever, my mom doesn’t mind.”

 

"…I can probably get Hiyoshi-san to cover for me," Ootori considers, though he winces at the thought. Putting him in the middle of this _doesn't_ appeal, but now that he's seen Shishido again, he's very certain he can't _stop_. "He'll say I was with him practicing or something if I ask him to." And he never asks favors. "Maybe later on Saturday, then?"

 

Shishido’s face lights up, and he doesn’t even try to pretend that it doesn’t. “Yeah! I’ll be there all day on Saturday, you can just show up whenever you’re free. I’ll wait until midnight, so don’t forget.” _If you don’t show up, I’ll figure your parents just kidnapped you._

 

"There's no way I'll forget." Ootori rolls a bit, just enough to tip Shishido off of his back, and promptly leans over to kiss him, no matter how it makes him blush. "I can't wait." 

 

~~

 

It’s dorky and lame, Shishido knows, to get up this early for someone who probably won’t be there until much later. That’s fine, because his mom is grateful to get him out of the house (“You’re always around on rainy days! Why don’t you go find that friend of yours, or hang out with that nice Atobe boy? Do you think his parents need any vacation friends?”).  He leaves just before six in the morning, with the sun already up and his dog trotting happily at his heels.

 

Lucky might be getting up in age, but he can still chase after tennis balls. It’s a good speed drill to hit a ball as fast as he can, and still manage to get his hands on it before Lucky can grab it. Shishido wears himself out like that until he falls over a stray board, skinning one knee. Oh, well, that’s good incentive to make another obstacle for the course. 

 

The next few hours are spent with drill practice. Ootori will be here any minute, he’s sure. Shishido scrubs his face vigorously with his towel, grimacing when a couple of his band-aids fall off. There are more in his tennis bag, but he doesn’t care enough right now.

 

Wood splinters go flying when his accurate strikes finally collapse one of the old beams, and the next few hours are spent trying to support the damn thing with disassembled hurdles from his obstacle course.

 

Any minute now, he’ll have someone to play against.

 

Well, at least he’ll be nice and warmed up by the time he gets here.

 

Strength training is next, and after a thousand one-armed push-ups on each side, followed by carrying the sandbags he’d “borrowed” from one end of the warehouse to the other, Shishido has to stop to turn on the lanterns he’d bought a few months earlier. Damn, he’d thought it was getting light later and later, but the sun is going down. He must have calculated wrong. 

 

At some point (he’s lost track, and he can’t see his watch in the darkness anyway), he slumps down onto the ground, just for a second.

 

Just...for a second...

 

It's an act of congress to get away, or so Ootori finds out.

 

He hasn't tried in months, and his parents are, as usual, demanding on the weekends as they are during the week. He's sick of having to keep to a strict schedule with his music practice, and contemplates breaking his bow strings on purpose just to have an excuse to go _out_. 

 

It isn't until much, much later, when the sun goes down and dinner comes and goes and his parents go to sleep that Ootori gives up on the idea of being _good_ , and simply sneaks out with his tennis bag thrown over one shoulder. He'll probably regret this later--except he won't, because it's Shishido, and seeing _him_ and keeping that promise is worth more than anything. 

 

It doesn't take too long to get to the warehouse, fortunately, though it's so quiet that Ootori panics for a minute, thinking maybe Shishido has already left. Worry twists in his stomach until Lucky trots over to him with a familiar bark, tail wagging furiously, and so that means Shishido has to be _somewhere_ …

 

And by somewhere, that means curled up and napping right there on the ground.

 

Ootori exhales an apology underneath his breath for taking so _long_ , and kneels down next to him, gently ruffling his hair. "Shishido-san."

 

“Wasn’ sleeping!”

 

The words are automatic as Shishido lurches up, blinking furiously in the dim light. For a second, he thinks he’s still dreaming, because Ootori is _here_. 

 

But in his dreams, he can never _smell_ Ootori, the clean crisp soap and sugary lotions that he uses on his hands and hair. Shishido rubs the back of his hand over his eyes, rubbing away the sleep and leaving a streak of dirt and a bit of dried blood. “You came.”

 

"I did." Ootori smiles wryly, and carefully thumbs away a bit of the blood from Shishido's brow. "I'm sorry it took so long. My parents were awful today, so I ended up having to sneak out after they went to bed. You look like you've been busy." 

 

“Training.” Shishido makes a face, but he reaches up to grab Ootori’s collar, tugging him down. If the other boy is _here_ , it means he’s here because they still want each other, which means kissing is a thing that can happen. He hopes. Prays. Hates himself for wanting. Shit, he just wants to kiss Ootori.

 

Ootori sucks in a soft, fast breath, lending himself to the tug and bumping his nose against Shishido's before tilting his head to properly kiss him. "You're torn all to shreds, though. You should take better care of yourself." It's moot, telling Shishido something like that, but saying it makes him feel a little bit better, at least.

 

Shishido rolls his eyes. “I’m _fine_ , Mom. It’s just cuts and scrapes, it’s not like I’m breaking bones or anything.” Well, there had been that toe last summer, but it’s healed plenty. He steals another small kiss, then hauls himself up to a sitting position. “How long can you stay? I have a light-up ball for the dark, but the ground isn’t that even.”

 

"I'm out now, so I might as well stay however long that you'll have me." Ootori tries not to think about how it sounds like he's a fugitive from prison. "I don't want you to hurt yourself any more, though--we could always try and find a street court, they're usually lit up."

 

Shishido nods, hefting himself to his feet to grab his balls and racket. “There’s one not too far away from here, if you wanna go.” If they’d started _earlier_ he could have shown off his new obstacle course, but he’s a hell of a lot too glad that Ootori’s here to complain about anything like that.

 

Ootori nods. "Let's. Maybe I can sneak out again tomorrow, and we can practice in here. Or if not…next weekend." There's nothing he can do but be apologetic, anyway, and hopefully this will change when they're actually going to the same school again. Hopefully. 

 

“Do you think you can?” Shishido tries not to sound too pathetically hopeful. Seeing Ootori again _once_ had been enough to make him feel like the person he used to be, rather than what he’s felt like for the last several months. “Our doubles game will get really good again…” _And I’ll feel like a person again, if I have you._

 

"No matter what I have to do, I'll do it." Ootori knows as well as Shishido does that now that they've seen one another again, they can't _stop_. It's terrifying to think about disappointing his parents again, but if they don't find _out…_ "We just have to be really careful." He sucks in a calming breath, and smiles. "We'll make it work." 

 

Shishido grins. Ootori has such a nice smile. “I’m not going to let you get in trouble again, so we’ll be _really_ careful.” A dozen bad scenarios flash through his head--getting caught again, seeing the horror on Ootori’s parents’ faces again, the _shame_ on Ootori’s face….

 

_Whatever I have to do. Even if I have to tell them...I don’t know. That I forced him or something._

 

"…If they catch me sneaking out, I'll blame Hiyoshi-san." He doesn't feel quite as bad about it, the more he thinks about it. Ootori gives a little shrug, and grabs Shishido's tennis bag as well to throw it over his opposite shoulder. "My captain wanted me to practice more because my accuracy was lacking again. Or something like that. They don't ever have to know I'm out here with you."

 

Shishido can’t deny that he likes the idea of Hiyoshi taking the fall more than himself. “Yeah, okay. My mom keeps asking about you, by the way. She thinks I’m trying to be cool by not hanging out with middle-schoolers.” He sets off, leading the way down the street, crossing to avoid some guys who look like they’ve been out clubbing late. “Gross, they smell like drugs and beer.”

 

"It's better if she thinks that, you know?" Ootori winces, trying not to think about how they're on the verge of being _delinquents_ as well--or, to be accurate, _he_ is, considering all the sneaking out at late hours. "That champagne Atobe-san always used to bring into the club room was bad enough…"

 

Shishido makes a face. “They smell like the cheap shit my uncle and his friends drink all the time. Did you ever meet my uncle Tuyoshi? I forget which year you came to the dinner.”

 

Ootori tries not to shudder a little. "I remember him." Shishido's family is _nice_ , but much louder and excitable than his own, and overall, the whole experience was a little…jarring. Yes. That's the word he'll use. He hesitates, then quietly asks, "What do you think your family would think about us? I mean, I know you don't want them to know, I'm just…curious." 

 

Shishido starts to shy away from the question, but stops himself. That’s not fair. Ootori doesn’t get the luxury of not thinking about it. He’s thought about it a lot, after seeing how Ootori’s family had reacted. “I think,” he says slowly, “my mom would be sad. My brother’s kind of a hikkimori, you know? She likes talking about what kind of girl I’m going to marry and stuff. My dad…” He swallows, grimacing. “I think if he saw us--like if he saw me on my knees for you, you know--I think he’d take me out back. A couple times I got sent home from school for fighting, he’d take me out there and make me fight him, and if I didn’t win I had to sleep outside. God, if my uncle found out—” He bites that thought off. It’s not a good thought.

 

That all sounds about like Ootori had thought, to be honest. He sucks in a slow breath, and his smile wanes a little. "Then let's just make sure they don't find out either. I don't want you to ever be on bad terms with your family, especially not because of me. They were always really good to me before."

 

“Yeah, they like you.” Shishido stretches out his shoulders, swinging them around to work out the kinks as he unlatches the fence around the tennis court. On the contrary, Ootori’s family had never liked him much, even before he’d been The Problem. At least there’s no love lost there. 

 

He stares at the court for a minute, then says abruptly, “My uncle would probably think it’s funny. Him and his friends go to okama bars to laugh at them. When I had long hair he used to say I’d be a good okama.”

 

Ootori can't help the look of disgust that flickers across his face. "You wouldn't. At all. That's just a rude thing to say--I mean, it's nothing against _them_ , it's just… just because you have long hair, that doesn't mean anything at all. And your hair is beautiful." He sets their bags down, fishing out both of their rackets. "It made you even more handsome, if anything, when it was long." He prides himself on not blushing too much when he says that.

 

Shishido’s smile is small, and secret, something he wants to keep for himself instead of sharing. He closes a hand over Ootori’s on the racket, looking around quickly before leaning up for a quick peck of a kiss. He’d never taken Tuyo-jisan too seriously, but it’s good to hear coming from someone he respects anyway. “You start serving.”

 

He keeps an eye on the drunk guys walking, just in case. They’re a little close to the tennis courts for his liking, but he’ll watch them.

 

There's a world of difference, when it comes to playing tennis with Shishido. 

 

Everything they've done together to train comes flashing back and through his mind, and hitting that first ace of a serve, fast and brutal to the baseline, makes Ootori grin in spite of himself. "Sorry--sorry, I won't hit those for practice, I just--I've still been doing the training regime you came up with to keep everything as accurate before, isn't it still good?" 

 

Shishido settles his hat more firmly on his head, taking off running after the ball. “That was great! What is that, the Ultra-Neo-Scud Serve?” _Shit, I want to see Kikumaru and Oishi’s faces with that coming at them._ “We’re definitely going to take Nationals with that!”

 

"You think? We _did_ at least win our doubles matches this year, though singles were…" Questionable. That's the word he'll use. "If you Hyotei High had one more doubles win, I guess you guys really would've given Azobu a run for their money!"

 

Shishido’s lip curls, and he tosses the ball up, smacking it out of the air with the serve he’s been working on so hard, the one no one’s seen yet. “We don’t talk about Azobu,” he snarls.

 

Ootori's eyes snap wide, and he makes a dogged attempt to run after the ball, to no avail. "O…okay," he manages, blinking rapidly. That ball is _gone_ , over the fence with the power of its bounce. "That's _amazing_ , Shishido-san--do it again!" he calls. Not talking about Azobu. Right. Got it.

 

Shishido’s smile is a little feral. He opens the gate, and whistles. “Lucky! Get the ball!”

 

The dog bounds out of the court, dashing off into the bushes, retrieving a tiny speck of yellow. He gets a thorough petting when he returns, and Shishido trots back to the baseline, considerably more relaxed. “Watch it,” he calls to Ootori. “Here it comes!”

 

Even watching it, it's impossible. 

 

Ootori whistles underneath his breath, watching that ball go out as well. "We're going to play doubles and win with nothing but service aces," he breathes. "Shishido-san, you're amazing."

 

“Your serve is fantastic too! They’ll never be able to touch us!” Shishido lets Lucky out again, and he goes bounding after the ball happily. Until he gets back, Shishido trots over to Ootori, offering him a high-five. “You haven’t been slacking off, Choutarou. We’re gonna kick ass.”

 

"I'm too afraid of what you'd do to me if I had slacked off," Ootori admits with a grin of his own, returning the high-five and maybe holding onto Shishido's hand a _little_ longer than necessary. "No more aces right now--let's just rally for a bit." _You know, when I let go of your hand._ "We can play that game we used to, see how long we can hit until we fall over." 

 

Shishido gives his hand a squeeze, and lets Lucky back in. “Bet you’ll fall over first.” He leans up close, on his tiptoes, and whispers, “What does the winner get? Set the stakes.”

 

Ootori considers just falling over right then, courtesy of how Shishido is whispering in his ear and making him shiver. "Um…ah…if you win, you can have anything you want, really--"

 

“ _When_ I win,” Shishido says, and resolves to win even if it kills him. “I’ll take what I want from you, Choutarou. How about that?” Not as if he doesn’t want it the other way, if Ootori manages to beat him. God, it’s been too long since he’s had the other boy inside him, and the thought of that when he’s right _here_ is enough to make him stumble slightly, knees wanting to buckle as he walks back to his own side of the court.

 

"Y-yes. That's…fine." Ootori briefly considers losing on purpose, but that won't do. Shishido would _know_ , and that would just piss him off. He swallows hard, steps back, and serves, trying _not_ to think about how he's already at least half-hard and Shishido isn't _fair_. 

 

The rally is an intense one, and Shishido’s biggest challenge comes from diving for a ball, crashing into the ground after returning it, and still getting up in time for the next one. Ootori’s reach really comes in handy at times like this, but that’s fine. That’s the kind of thing that makes Shishido want it more, and he leaps into action, going after every volley with the intensity of a match point.

 

There's no such thing as doing anything half-way when it's with Shishido. All or nothing, which was difficult in the past for Ootori to really throw himself behind, but _now_ \--now he loves it, even if Shishido is determined to run him into the ground, or so it seems. 

 

Ootori has no doubts that Shishido's endurance tops his own, especially now. That's _fine_ , though it's something he tucks away into the back of his mind for later to work on, especially now that his chest is heaving and he barely has time to wipe sweat from his brow to keep it from dripping into his eyes when he goes after the next ball, barely tapping it over and the dropshot of a return to follow is what finally does him in. 

 

He nearly curses when he goes skidding across the court after it only to miss, and flops down onto his back afterwards with a groan, laying his racket over his face in surrender. "It's," he pants out, "your win." 

 

Shishido’s face lights up with the fierce pride that comes from knowing this is _real_ , that Ootori had tried as hard as he possibly could, and that this win is _his_. He leaps over the net at the center, barely sparing a thought for whether those club guys are still around before grabbing Ootori by the collar, yanking him up for a rough, bruising kiss as his knees hit the ground.

 

His blood courses hot and fast, the way it only does with a game and with Ootori, and he inhales deeper than he should, breathing in the sweat and scent that is always _Choutarou_. “Get back to the warehouse,” he mutters, hands urgent, wanting on Ootori’s collar, trying to stop himself from stripping him right here. “Need it. My prize.”

 

A strangled whine catches up in Ootori's throat, and he can barely think to nod, can barely think not to just grab hold of Shishido's ass and haul him close and down and on top of him right then and there, public eye be damned. "Not gonna make it if you keep kissing me like that," he desperately whispers, face flushed and blood pounding in his veins, and he kisses Shishido again for good measure, no matter how it makes him groan and want to roll them over on the tennis court and take him against the pavement. He _remembers_ far too clearly what it's like being inside Shishido, and Ootori can't stop the way his breath hiccups and hitches at just thinking about it. 

 

“Shit.” Shishido can’t think about watching his language, not when all he wants to do is surrender and feel Ootori’s hands on his bare skin again, taste his lips, nuzzle into his hipbones and feel the aching heat of his cock—

 

The thought of having it inside him again makes him dizzy, and his legs give out, making him flop down onto Ootori right there, pressed up against him and _wriggling_. “Fuck,” he gasps, rubbing mindlessly against the other boy, eyes lidding, “I can’t wait, I—”

 

Lucky’s bark alerts him to just how fast his thoughts are slipping, and with a wrench of effort, Shishido rolls off of Ootori and stands up, just in time to see the group of club guys walking what he thinks is _suspiciously_ close to the tennis courts. “Come on,” he mutters, not offering Ootori a hand up because he’ll probably shove them both down again at the slightest touch of Ootori’s skin. “Let’s go.”

 

Propriety and common sense wins out in the end, no matter how hard is cock is, and Ootori surrenders with a shuddering breath, barely managing to claw his way up onto his feet. He hastily grabs up their bags, only half-zipping them as he briskly (as briskly as he _can_ at any rate) moves to the gate. "I'm not letting you win again," he pathetically says, voice strained. 

 

“Sure,” Shishido says, clipping Lucky’s leash to his collar. “What do you care? You get to do it either way.” 

 

Damn, he needs to stop thinking about it before they get to the warehouse, or he’ll have to walk the whole way there with a hard-on. He breaks into a jog, nodding his head at Ootori, and thanks all the gods his mother ever prayed to when she stubbed her toe that they’re only a few blocks away.

 

The second they get inside the creaky, falling-down door, Shishido slams Ootori up against the wall, hard muscle pinning him there for Shishido to touch, to squeeze, to _kiss_. “You thinking about it?” he asks eagerly, sliding a thigh up between Ootori’s. “You remember?” _Do you think about it every night before you go to bed, like I do?_

 

Ootori is fairly certain he's going to melt to the floor and die.

 

That wouldn't be very helpful, though, not when he has his arms full of Shishido and that is the singular best thing in the world. It's so easy to forget why he ever thought this was a bad thing, why he thinks there should be any shame to go with this when Shishido is wriggling against him, and Ootori groans, dragging his hands down Shishido's back, dragging him up into a hard kiss as he pants out ragged breaths through his nose.

 

"Think about it all the time," he admits, shuddering, and a hand snakes down lower, grabbing a handful of Shishido's ass. He _loves_ the way that makes Shishido jerk and grind against him harder, loves the way he can feel Shishido's cock throb against him. "You're just…" _Gorgeous, perfect, everything._  

 

Shishido’s voice is an urgent little whimper, and he clutches at Ootori’s shoulders, his shirt, his hair. He bucks under the other boy’s hand, biting his hip _hard_ at the squeeze on his ass, and can’t help himself. He starts pawing at the front of Ootori’s pants, muttering, “Get them off, I want it in me, hurry up—”

 

At least he hadn’t said _hurry the fuck up_ , the way he’d wanted to. Ootori’s so cute when he’s correcting bad language, but Shishido doesn’t _care_ right now, just wants, craves, _needs_ to get fucked. He looks up at Ootori, biting his lip so hard it bleeds. “You want it, right?”

 

Ootori can only nod, his mouth gone so dry that words are impossible for a moment until the swallows, flipping them around, pressing Shishido hard into the wall with another rough kiss. "Did you--do you have anything we can use? I don't…" _I don't want to hurt you_. Shishido would argue, say that he won't get hurt, that it's fine, but that's not as _good_ or _fun_ for either of them. He yanks at the fastenings of his pants all the same, biting his own lip to keep back his voice when he _finally_ gets his cock free, and he has to give it a slow, measured squeeze to keep from coming far too soon. 

 

Shishido’s eyes glaze for a second when Ootori pulls himself out. Seeing it a few days ago had not been enough, not for how much he’s been wanting and _dreaming_ about it for months, no matter how much that makes him want to slap himself stupid. And this is embarrassing as hell, but…

 

“I...got something.” 

 

He’d almost died of nerves and embarrassment buying it, but he’d pulled it off. He fishes it out of his tennis bag, cheeks flaming. “You ever see those Egg commercials? Well, you’re supposed to use them by yourself, and the guy behind the counter didn’t ask for me to prove I was 18, so...I, uh, got a few.” Spent his whole allowance on it, and he fishes out the clear little packages, dumping them in Ootori’s hands. “I thought that’d be better than the other stuff we tried.” Lotion, cooking oil, shampoo...

 

What's there to do but laugh nervously at that? "Shishido-san, you're braver than I'll ever be," Ootori commends him, no matter how his own face is flushed and hot and really, maybe just plain old lotion would be a better alternative to save them both the embarrassment. He sucks in a steadying breath and peels open the first one--yep, this makes the whole thing feel even dirtier and more obscene and _wrong_ and…probably, that shouldn't make him harder still, but it does. At least they don't have to use the _egg_ , just the lubricant. "I want…" If Shishido can go out of his way to get something like this, Ootori figures he can at least say one mildly obscene thing in his life. "I want to take you from behind." Even his ears burn now. "I like being able to see it…when it goes inside you." 

 

Shishido sways slightly on his feet at the sudden rush of blood south. He licks bitten lips and nods shakily, sucking in a breath. “Y-yeah. That sounds...really good.”

 

To have Ootori pressed up behind him, urgent and insistent, sliding deep inside--yeah, that sounds like the reward he wants.

 

Shishido strips off his shirt, glad that they can do it this time and not just pull their dicks out. He kicks off his jeans, and tosses his hat aside, as if daring Ootori to say anything. Then he swallows hard and asks softly, “On the ground? Or against the wall?” He doesn’t care, just wants the slow, aching burn of Ootori filling him steadily with cock.

 

"…Against the wall." Ootori would be lying if he didn't like being able to hold Shishido up when his legs crumple out from beneath him, or see the way every muscle down his back tenses and twitches and _works_ when he's inside of him. He yanks his own shirt off and grabs Shishido close again for a moment, bending down and kissing him hard and needy as he shoves his own pants down the rest of the way, kicking them off of his ankles in short order. "Do you…do you use your fingers on yourself still?" The last time Shishido told him he did that when he wasn't around, Ootori nearly came on the spot. Not fair, but really good. 

 

Shishido can’t really help the way his hands rise up, sliding down the smooth muscle of Ootori’s chest, thumbs rubbing over his nipples before sliding down, gliding along his abdomen and back up. “Like you said,” he breathes, so hard he can feel the tip of his cock starting to leak already, “I didn’t want to get out of practice.” 

 

_And after so many times with you it just doesn’t feel as good any other way._

 

His eyes go dark, and he leans back against the wall. “Why, you wanna watch me?” He’d bet anything that Ootori does. He’d offered before, but Ootori had grabbed him and fucked him before he’d gotten a single digit inside.

 

Ootori's knees wobble. "Yes." But--"I don't…think I can last that long, though," he admits with a breathless laugh, and he surges forward, kissing, sucking the side of Shishido's neck, savoring the slide of their hard, slick cocks with a groan before he's grabbing at Shishido's shoulder to turn him around. "S-sorry, just really need to be inside you--" _That's better than watching, better than anything._

 

“Every time,” Shishido grumbles, amused and _hard_ , hands scrabbling at the wall. “I swear, Choutarou, you have no damn patience--ah, fuck, dammit—”

 

Even just feeling the other boy there is unbearable. Shishido can’t help the way his legs spread, breath coming in quick little huffs as he braces himself against the wall. There’s something so lewd about not knowing when it’ll happen, when Ootori will finally slide it in, and he has to rest his forehead against the wall for a minute. “S-shit,” he breathes, and can’t help the way he shoves his ass back. “Do it already, would you?”

 

It's kind of impossible to resist giving one of Shishido's thighs a pinch. "Now who's the one without any patience?" Ootori huffs, and ah, yes, those little egg things were a great idea. The lubricant is slick without being sticky at all, and a generous amount of it slicks his cock well, leaving him dripping and eager as he rubs the head of his cock against Shishido's hole. 

 

"Know it's a lot at first, sorry, just--tell me if you want me to stop--" Ootori breathlessly manages, biting his lip, steadying himself by grabbing one of Shishido's hips and holding tight, and god, the first, aching press inside makes his eyes roll back. It takes effort, always does, even more now it seems like, just to get the head of his cock inside, and he shudders down to his toes when it finally sinks in, the sight of Shishido's body spread around his cock, inch by inch sliding in, enough to make his eyes cross. 

 

Ah.

 

Shishido squeezes his burning eyes shut, gulping for air. Nothing has _ever_ felt like Ootori inside him. Not his fingers, not that one time he’d tried putting something else up there, _nothing_. Maybe that’s partly because his fingers are so much _smaller_ than Ootori’s cock, shoving slick and huge inside of him.

 

Shishido can’t breathe, fingers scrabbling at the wall, and he sort of wants to tell Ootori to stop and sort of (really) _doesn’t_. He wishes he had something to bite down on, and can feel his cock going soft at the first brutal entry, slick as it is. 

 

 _I’ll be all right in a minute_ , he wants to say, but he can’t speak apart from labored, sobbing gasps. Dammit, he hates being out of practice. “G-go,” he manages to grunt out, and finds the strength to shove himself back onto that hard, thick length.

 

Just another _inch_ inside is enough to make Ootori groan, but his hands are firm and tight on Shishido's hips, holding him _still_ when he mouths a hot kiss to the back of his neck, drawing in several long, ragged breaths into his lungs. "Don't…hurt yourself," he rasps, another wet kiss pressed against the other boy's bowing shoulders. He's about half inside, and that's honestly more than enough, though Shishido is too-tight and trembling and that makes his cock _ache_. "I-it's good like this, you don't have to take all of it," Ootori whispers, sucking on the lobe of one ear, one hand pawing around to stroke down Shishido's stomach, grasping for his softening cock. "Want you to love it, so just--"

 

“I _do_.”

 

Shishido scrubs at his face with the back of his hand, wiping off wetness, and turns to try and give Ootori a kiss. “I do,” he repeats, a little less broken, a little less upset. “I--it’s okay if I don’t come, I just love the way you feel in me--you’re just--fuck, really big—”

 

He sags down into Ootori’s hands, a twitching, writhing thing under his hands, spread around his cock. It’s _good_ , it’s just also painful, and huge, and too much for him to handle. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

 

Ootori understands, at least, but that doesn't make him 100% happy with it. He bends down, kissing Shishido soundly, his hands sure and firm and steadying on lean hips. "Sorry," he breathlessly apologizes again. "I'll be careful." It's hard to be, when Shishido is writhing on his cock and he wants little more than to slide in as deep as he can and _fill_ him. "If…if it gets to be too much, just _tell me_." 

 

At least it's _slick_ when he moves, both from the lube and how he's dripping and leaking inside, and Ootori chokes down a groan when he slides back, then forward, taking his time to rock slowly inside. If he goes slow, it usually gets better. Shishido gets angrier if he stops and then _no one_ is happy and ah, god, he feels so good inside that Ootori isn't sure he could stop if he tried.

 

God, that kiss helps.

 

Shishido writhes slowly, sucking in air when their lips come apart, his whole body ten times more relaxed than before. Ootori’s a shockingly good kisser, always has been, and Shishido chalks it up to “just one of those genius things.” 

 

His cock gives a twitch at one smooth, steady thrust, and he gasps, a hell of a lot less out of pain. “That,” he breathes, searching for words when his whole body is focused on the huge invasion pressing up slick and hot between his legs, “that stuff’s pretty good, huh?” 

 

This would have been around the time, with the old lotion they’d always used, that it started sticking and drying out, and Shishido would start wanting to complain. This stuff is just _good_ , making it feel less forced, more _natural_. He leans his forehead against the wall, rutting forward with a weak twitch of his hips into Ootori’s hand.

 

"Really good," Ootori agrees, his eyes lidding when he feels at least one bunch of muscles _melt_ , and his lips find the crook of Shishido's shoulder, pressing a long, sucking kiss there as he legs his hips roll in slow and deep. Shishido is so squirmy, so _wriggly_ on his cock that it's hard not to just pin him down and take him, but it's _better_ when he takes his time, because Shishido always opens up like this and pretty soon he's begging for all of it. 

 

Ootori likes that part a _lot_. 

 

His fingers squeeze slowly around Shishido's cock when he grinds forward, eyes flicking down to catch sight of the way Shishido is spread open, the way his cock looks when it's buried in his ass and that makes him groan and twitch. "You always look…so, _so_ good like this." 

 

Shishido can’t quite control the spasms that rake through his body when Ootori slides in like that, gentle and easy and _good_ , but not _enough_. There’s something unbelievably erotic about knowing Ootori is watching his cock go up inside his ass, watching it stretch him open, and Shishido’s breath is a strangled, helpless thing. “Yeah,” he sighs out, not really sure what he’s agreeing to, but sure that he wants to agree nonetheless.

 

There’s a tight, cramping ache low in his belly, and Shishido thinks wildly that his internal organs must be rearranging themselves to make room for Ootori’s cock, which...probably shouldn’t make his cock harder. 

 

His cock throbs, and that makes Shishido bite his lip again for all different reasons, shoving lightly at the wall. “Itches,” he mutters, “when you don’t move, just—” 

 

Frustrated, he thunks his fist against the wall, drawing in a shaky breath. “You _know_ what I want, do you want to make me say it again?”

 

Sometimes, there's really no point in arguing with Shishido--and sometimes (usually), Ootori doesn't want to. "Don't complain later," he breathlessly warns, even if he doesn't mean it, and he slides both of his hands to Shishido's waist to hold him steady when he gives in and slides in _deep_.

 

The way Shishido's body squeezes around him steals the breath from his lungs, makes him lurch and shudder and groan, and Ootori's hips twitch up to slide in that last, aching inch, until he's in so deep that their skin slaps together and he can feel Shishido's breath like it's his own. "T…that's… that's all of it," he groans, bowing his head down against Shishido's shoulder before he thrusts in again, hands scrabbling to pull Shishido back onto his cock this time. 

 

For some weird reason, it feels better to have _all_ of Ootori than half of him. Maybe it’s just so overwhelming that his system gives up, or maybe he just loves the way Ootori strikes all those places inside him that make him writhe all at once. He twitches, helpless and _hungry_ , and nods his head, sending sweat dripping down his face and back. 

 

“Ch-Choutarou,” he grunts, and it doesn’t matter if he closes his eyes because he can’t see anyway. He wriggles back, feeling the long lean strength of Ootori pressing up behind him, and manages a shaky grin. “Yeah, that’s--unn, _god_ , fuck--oh fuck, fuck me,” he breathes, when wriggling on that thick cock makes some stars explode behind his eyes. His head bows forward, enough that he can see a splatter of white against the wall, and oh, maybe that’s when he’d gotten so boneless and _accommodating_. It doesn’t matter, and he doesn’t say anything, not when Ootori would probably stop if he knew Shishido’d already come. “Fuck me,” he says again instead, and reaches back to claw at the back of Ootari’s neck.

 

One of these days, maybe he'll get on Shishido's case for his _language_ again. 

 

Right now, there's really nothing more that could go straight to his dick.

 

Ootori gives in, gives _up_ , shoving in long and hard and deep, dragging a hand up Shishido's back to tangle a hand in his hair and pull his head back and kiss him rough and hungry and messy. It's so much _easier_ now, and every wriggle, every squirm, every noise Shishido makes against his mouth just makes his own cock throb, makes him leak inside of him and that makes it easier still, slick and hot and _perfect_. 

 

He can't help but use both the hold on Shishido's hair and his hip to haul him back, and he shoves in hard enough to push the other boy up onto his tiptoes a few times. Being inside so completely makes Ootori's eyes cross, makes his mind shut off, and he comes with a ragged, breathless gasp, spilling deep inside. 

 

When his mind stops doing flips and his vision (mostly) unblurs, Ootori thinks to drag a shaky hand down between Shishido's legs. His fingers slide away sticky, and there's a very perverted impulse to slide them into Shishido's mouth, but…ahh, his legs are already thinking about buckling. 

 

Shishido’s body has given up.

 

He twitches and trembles, helpless little mewling sounds coming from his lips, and there’s something so unbelievably hot about the fact that Ootori just fucked him right off his feet.

 

At the last thrust, he sags back against Ootari, boneless and _done_. “God, I missed that so much.” 

 

His voice is hoarse and ragged, and he reaches behind to find one of Ootori’s hands, squeezing it in his own and bringing it close to his mouth for a kiss. “Missed everything about you, god, Choutarou…” He gets sappy after, sometimes, but Ootori is nice enough not to bring it up again later.

 

"I think about this…you…everything about you, all the time." He's glad his voice is mostly steady enough to say that, and Ootori breathes in deep when he presses a kiss to the back of Shishido's neck. Slowly, carefully, he pulls out, wincing at the sensation, even more so the mess, but he bites back the apology that is on the tip of his tongue. He sinks down to the ground, dragging Shishido down with him and into his lap. "You're always perfect." 

 

Shishido takes the opportunity to snuggles close immediately, butting his head under Ootori’s chin. “You always do that right,” he sighs, “even when I tell you the wrong thing. Wow, shit, I forgot how that feels after.” He winces, reaching a hand down between his own legs, and makes a face at how messy it comes away.

 

"I've got a towel in my bag, I think," Ootori murmurs, and leans away just long enough to paw at his bag and get it within easy reach. "You always sort of end up a mess…sorry," he wryly sighs out, pressing a kiss to Shishido's temple. 

 

Shishido shrugs. “You always come a lot. I…” The tips of his ears turn pink, and he takes the towel, grimacing as he wipes himself down. “You know I don’t hate it.”

 

"…It's really sort of…" If he says it's hot, well, that's the most incriminating thing ever. Ootori flushes and half-hides his face into Shishido's hair instead. "I'm glad you don't mind." 

 

Stupid Ootori, being stupidly attractive. Shishido turns and bites his shoulder. “Stop it. You’re gonna make me…” Not that it would be the first time they’d gone all night, but usually they take breaks for snacks and stuff in between. “Do you have any food?”

 

"Ah, yeah. Rice cakes okay for now?" Ootori starts rummaging again. "Don't bite me, _I'm_ not food."

 

“But I’m hungry. And you’re tasty.” Logic is great.

 

Ootori stuffs a rice cake into Shishido's mouth. "I'm definitely not an adequate food supply."

 

Shishido chews, swallows, and grins. “I don’t know. I bit you, and I got a rice cake. Pretty good food supply, if you ask me.”

 

"I knew I shouldn't have rewarded your bad behavior," Ootori sighs, and gives him another rice cake all the same. 

 

“I trained really hard today,” Shishido complains, munching happily. “I ate all my sandwiches hours ago. It’s your fault they’re gone, so you should definitely feed me.”

 

Can't argue with that logic. "I'll treat you somewhere, if you want." It's Tokyo, there's _definitely_ something open even this late, and they're already delinquents, so why not?

 

“I’m fine with a combini,” Shishido volunteers. He stands, and bites his lip at the sudden _ache_ between his legs. Yeah, that’s….fine. It’s fine. “You can get me a caloriemate or something, I don’t care.”

 

"Whatever you want." He definitely saved his allowance with this in mind, after all. Ootori climbs onto his own feet, and reaches out a steadying hand when he sees Shishido wince. "You okay? I can carry you on my back, it's good training anyway." That's probably the only way Shishido would ever agree, to be fair.

 

Shishido punches Ootori in the shoulder. Not hard, just enough to send some sort of a message. “Don’t be a dick. I’m _fine_ , it’s not like I was a virgin or anything.”

 

"I just didn't want you to be in pain," Ootori huffs back at him, otherwise unfazed as he gets dressed. "If you're limping tomorrow, that's _your_ fault, then."

 

“I’m gonna be limping tomorrow whether or not you carry me,” Shishido growls. He grabs his tennis bag and slings it onto Ootori’s shoulder. “Your fault, your dick got too big. Make it shrink.”

 

Ootori heaves a sigh. Things would certainly be easier. "Yes, _sempai_. I'll get right on that." 

 

Once they leave the warehouse, Shishido’s grin fades, and his step gets closer together, hiding any traces of a limp. He starts trying to straighten out his hair, scrubbing his face off on his shirt. It’s stupid, but for hours afterwards, he’s always convinced everyone can _tell_. Maybe it’s just that Uncle Tuyoshi is staying with them for a few weeks, making _comments_. Maybe he’s just paranoid. “Like three blocks that way,” he grunts, motioning with his chin.

 

Ootori takes one look at him before he swings both their bags onto one shoulder, spares a look around (it's so late that the streets are as empty as anything), and then bends down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head through his hat. "You look fine," he quietly says, straightening again. "I didn't leave any marks. It just looks like we practiced tennis for a really long time."

 

“Stop it,” Shishido mutters, looking around. “Someone might see, aren’t you in enough trouble because of me?” At least Ootori knows that he gets like this after and probably won’t hate him for it.

 

"Mm…there's no one around. But I won't do it again." Shishido has a point, anyway, and that's why it doesn't bother him. Ootori sighs a little all the same. Maybe, eventually, they should take one of Atobe's weird offers to vacation overseas and not come back. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Yukimura should have seen this coming. 

 

The next day after the practice match--more importantly, the next day after taking a picture of Niou and Fuji _definitely_ flirting on the bleachers--Fuji sort of half-stumbles out of Niou's dorm room, all to sweetly inform them that Niou will not be coming to practice or class that day, and can they please collect his homework? 

 

Yukimura's response in general is _what the fuck_ , and he thinks that's pretty appropriate. 

 

Niou doesn't come to practice that evening either, and when he finally emerges the next day, at least Fuji isn't there with him. He seems…well, pleased with himself, if one can gauge Niou-emotions. Yukimura thinks himself pretty decent at that, after several years of it. 

 

Near the end of the week is when something akin to hell breaks loose. 

 

It starts with another weird morning of bumping into Fuji Shuusuke in _their_ dorm hallways, which always makes him do a triple take (not to be confused with a triple counter). Does Fuji just… _go here_ now? That makes even Yukimura a little anxious. 

 

"What if he transfers here?" God, at least he seems to leave before practice starts. Niou is at least here this morning, though cranky enough to hiss at Sanada. Not talk, not grunt, not even just shrug-- _hiss_. Like a snake. Yukimura lowers his voice a bit more. "How sure are we that he's quit tennis?" 

 

"Considering he already practically lives in one of our dorm rooms--which is entirely against the rules, _by the way_ ," Yagyuu snippily cuts in, very obviously not directed to Yukimura, considering the trajectory of his glare, "it wouldn't be _so_ very different."

 

“At least he puts more effort into tennis than some Azobu _regulars_ ,” Niou says airily, flopping down onto the bleachers next to Yukimura. “He comes to every practice, and he’s helping me work on my game. Not always playing other sports.” Unfortunately, curling has sort of been put on hold.

 

Yagyuu, from Yukimura's other side, leans forward to glare more effectively in Niou's direction. "Ah, yes, because that is definitely benefitting your doubles game. Playing singles with someone who has been out of the game for--how long now? Nearly six months?" 

 

“At least he doesn’t run off to student council when he’s supposed to be practicing doubles,” Niou counters. “You think my doubles game suffered? Why don’t you play me and Fuji and find out? Pick any partner.”

 

"You've been practicing with him for a week! There's no way you could have possibly improved that much!" 

 

"…Considering Masaharu's general learning curve--"

 

"Student council is at least a _valid_ distraction!" Yagyuu interrupts Yanagi's deadpan with a scowl. Yukimura's left eyebrow slowly starts to tick. "Unlike…whatever it is you do in your spare time, which seems _mostly_ to consist of skipping class. Stop harassing me for the study guides when you don't even come to class for five minutes!"

 

“Maybe I don’t _need_ your study guides anymore!” Niou stands up, glaring, and not really meaning much about study guides. “Maybe I’ll make my own study guides now with someone who--you know what, you’ll _want_ to make my study guides, but I gave you a chance.”

 

"I definitely won't want to make your study guides. You know what, it'll be a _relief_ to not have you pawing around my notebooks for them, you always make everything so disorganized! Just be lucky I haven't reported you for having a _friend_ spending the night! Or, you know, any other of the _dozens_ of violations you've done just in the past two weeks--"

 

Yukimura presses a pair of fingers to the bridge of his nose. 

 

"Either way, let's see how your doubles game develops when you don't have a _reliable_ partner." Yagyuu shoves at his glasses. "I suppose you could play singles--ah. I forgot. You haven't won even one singles match this year."

 

Niou’s eyes narrow, and he grabs his racket, jumping down a few bleachers. “Buchou, can I play a practice game against Yagyuu right now? To show him just who’s going to be _missing a partner_?”

 

 _Anything to get you both away from me_. "A 7 point match only," Yukimura sighs, long-suffering and thinking of how many laps they will all be running soon enough.

 

Yagyuu frowns, snatches up his own racket, and storms off down to the court. 

 

"Our doubles were already not perfect," Yanagi mildly points out. "This could put us at a serious disadvantage for next year." 

 

 _Is it too early in the morning for seppuku?_ "Let's all agree to blame Fuji," Yukimura decisively says.

 

“Or we could just get him to transfer to Azobu,” Sanada says quietly, adjusting the brim of his cap. Surely, Yukimura’s seen the kid’s talent. Everyone knows Fuji Shuusuke’s a genius--a weirdo, but a genius. “He’s played doubles before, and well. Then we wouldn’t have to worry about him spilling secrets to any other team.”

 

On the court, Niou pops open a can of balls and takes one to serve, slamming it to the baseline.

 

Yukimura's eyebrows climb.

 

"…One-love," Marui tentatively calls. 

 

This is pleasantly surprising. Yukimura leans forward a bit. "Maybe we could snatch up both him and that kitten," he muses aloud. " _He_ is positively wasted as a doubles player, for one, and would make an excellent reserve if nothing else." 

 

"Two-love?" Marui sounds a little confused. 

 

"Of course, I'd like to actually _see_ Niou and Fuji play a doubles match before committing to that idea…" 

 

"Three-love--christ, Niou, don't be a douche about it, this is the weirdest break-up ever!" Marui huffily calls out. 

 

Sanada nudges Yukimura’s shoulder. “Notice anything weird about the way Niou’s playing?” he murmurs under his breath. “He’s not using illusions.”

 

On the court, Niou shakes hair out of his face, spinning his racket once in his hand before sending over a shot so fast the eye has trouble following. 

 

Sanada can’t help but look up--sure enough, there’s Fuji in the stands, sitting with a tiny smile on his face and his eyes mostly shut.

 

Yukimura isn't sure whether to be infinitely pleased or utterly creeped out. 

 

"I…think that was four-love? Um, five…now, dammit--"

 

He goes with the former. "That's enough," Yukimura calls out, standing up with a clap of his hands. "You've proven your point. Yagyuu, 10 laps. Niou, come here." 

 

Yagyuu looks as put out as he ever has about anything, and scowling, all but hissing rather like his (ex-??)boyfriend had a bit earlier, takes off to start his run. 

 

“That should show him,” Niou mutters, and flops back onto the bleachers. “What’s up, boss?”

 

Sanada scowls. Even if it _is_ good that Niou’s playing more seriously, he could at least do it a bit more….seriously.

 

"Up with you, walk with me." Yukimura hauls him up by the collar of his shirt easily enough, and shrugs his own jersey off and into Sanada's face. Another glance into the bleachers, and Fuji is gone (thankfully?), wherein Yukimura bites back a sigh. "The rest of you, swing practice." 

 

It usually takes a little bit of effort to get anything out of Niou, but--"So…the whole Fuji thing in a nutshell. Bonus points for the Yagyuu thing, too." 

 

Niou shrugs, falling easily into step with his captain. “You know as much about Yagyuu as me,” he says, trying not to be annoyed about it. “I ain’t the one he writes poetry to. Me and Fuji--what, you want positions?”

 

"God, is he going to start that again?" Yukimura mutters, grimacing outright. He makes a mental note to tape the slots of his locker shut as soon as possible. "And no, I don't want positions. Just--I _am_ glad to see you working seriously for a change. And cutting the captain bullshit out of it, you _do_ seem happier." Even if it's with Fuji, which is more than slightly terrifying. "Please tell me you haven't set a bridge on fire to celebrate your love, though."

 

“A bridge, huh? Good idea, buchou!” The smile on Niou’s face says, though probably only to Yukimura, that he’s joking. He walks quietly for a moment, then says in less of an affected voice, “It’s nice having someone give a shit. Even if I’m burning through wigs at an alarming rate.”

 

"…I was going to say--isn't he still hung up on a certain someone?" Yukimura deadpans. "You're displaying a disturbing trend in your taste, if you keep that in mind. I can get Sanada to try and slap it out of him for you, but that only applies if he is actually transferring here, which I am ambivalent about."

 

Niou’s face falls a bit. “He’s not sure yet...I think he wants to, but he’s still kinda bummed about tennis in general. Why wouldn’t you want him? He’s a fucking genius.”

 

 _Because he's a lunatic_. And that aside--"…Because he's bummed about tennis in general," Yukimura gently echoes, coming to a stop and turning back to face Niou. "And," he continues, idly grabbing Niou's face and narrowing his eyes as he squishes it (Niou makes a good fish), "because you're displaying a disturbing trend in your taste. Is the sex _seriously_ that good? If he calls you 'Tezuka', the answer is a definite 'no.'"

 

Niou’s gaze is level, but a bit annoyed for the first time. “Buchou,” he says carefully, “I know you mean well. But when someone says _my_ name when they’re fucking _you_ , you can talk to me about what I deserve.” It hadn’t been just once, either, and Yagyuu had always made it worse by trying to come up with stupid, unbelievable excuses.

 

Yukimura opens his mouth, then shuts it again, looking decidedly weirded out for once as he turns that over in his head. "Ah. That's…right, look, how about this," he exasperatedly brushes off. Not thinking about that. Not dealing with that. "If he transfers here, and you two can play and win a consistent doubles game in a practice match…then I won't say another word and you two can do whatever you want. That's assuming he actually wants to join the club in the first place." 

 

Niou’s eyebrows climb. “Oh?” he says, softly, not entirely _safe_. “And if he doesn’t want to join your tennis team, you won’t let us do _whatever we want?” Are you sure this is a road you want to go down, Yukimura?_

 

"That's not what I meant, and don't fucking do that voice with me," Yukimura flatly snaps back, folding his arms. "If he doesn't want to join, he doesn't have to join. I'm saying if he does, and he wins, then good for both of you and I'll step off. If he joins and doesn't win, then I'm going to be riding you both so hard that you'll regret every life choice that led you here."

 

Niou holds his gaze for a moment, then nods. He doesn’t make much of a bow, but Yukimura won’t expect too much of one from him, anyway. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, sure. Sounds about fair.” 

 

He thrusts his hands in his pockets and asks quietly, “Did you see me take that game from Yagyuu? I was on form, yeah?”

 

"Very." Yukimura plops a hand on top of Niou's head, giving his hair a teasing rub when he's satisfied it isn't a wig (this time). "You play a hell of a game when you actually _play tennis_."

 

Niou ducks out from under the touch, scowling and bobbing. “Yeah, yeah. Just let me get Fuji back on his own form and he’ll be a match for anyone at Azobu but you.” He hopes.

 

Yukimura makes another grab or two for the hell of it, grinning. " _Really._ I'm telling Sanada you said that."

 

“Too slow, buchou,” Niou says easily, sidestepping another attempt at hair pettings. “Gotta get up early in the morning. Tell Sanada I’ll voluntarily attend a meeting of the disciplinary committee if he beats Fuji in a fair match.”

 

Yukimura considers shooting his headband at him instead. "Ooh, that'll get him excited. I'm not sure I want the disciplinary committee knowing about everything a tennis club member has been doing, though, so keep it low-key." 

 

“Don’t assume he’ll win. Fuji’s got a lot of tricks up his sleeve.” Niou has a strange, fond look on his face. “Weird, _weird_ tricks. It’ll be fun.”

 

"Tell me later," Yukimura warns him. "When I'm drunk, maybe." 

 

Niou brightens at that. “Are we going drinking? When? Where? Do I have time to get my coat?”

 

"It's _early_ and we have practice and class. Unfortunately," Yukimura adds with a sigh, and smacks a hand against Niou's back. "Maybe later; Keikei--uh, Atobe, has been trying to get us all out and drinking for awhile now. For now, though, practice. And seriously, if you skip out on chem again, I'm going to staple you down to the desk by your _real_ hair."

 

“If you can find it,” Niou agrees cheerfully. “Just don’t go drinking without me. Oh, can Fuji come, when we go? I want to see what kind of drunk he is.” _And I want to see how he operates around Tezuka’s boyfriend._

 

"Sure, why not." Atobe is going to murder him. Yukimura supposes he deserves it, but _Atobe_ is the one that preached about making all of their teammates happy. 

 

~~

 

It isn't like he's moving in. It's just that his cacti stress when he isn't around, and he's been around _here_ so much more often lately, so logically…

 

Fuji squints down at them, arranging them on a table _near_ the window, but not on the sill. That would mean sure death, considering how often the window is used as a door. As it is, Tezuka seems to be on its last legs already, browning and rotting no matter how little or how much water, and Fuji sighs, wondering if he'll ever find a Tezuka with a strong enough constitution. 

 

Niou-cactus seems to be doing just fine. Go figure. 

 

His phone rings, and Fuji ignores it in favor of rummaging. Eiji isn't pleased with him and how they've barely met up at all aside from class, and honestly, Fuji can't blame him. It doesn't mean he wants to listen to his whining. Hmm. Maybe he's allowed to toss Yagyuu's spare glasses out the window now. Refraining for now, though, is probably a good decision. 

 

He grabs a last cactus out of his tennis bag (why is he using that again, why is he bothering again) and sets it next to the others. It doesn't look terribly healthy either, so maybe he'll name it Yagyuu and it'll die. 

 

Sometimes, Fuji comes to the conclusion that he is odd. 

 

The window opens without warning, and Niou hops improbably up on the sill from outside, no matter that they’re not exactly on the ground floor. He looks about zero percent surprised to see Fuji, and leans forward to give his ass a pinch. “Yo. Moving in?” He doesn’t sound as upset about it as anyone would expect him to, probably.

 

Fuji doesn't as much as blink. "My cacti missed me," he simply answers. "Niou-cactus is doing well, see? Tezuka and Yagyuu, not so much." That is definitely its name now.

 

Niou grins. “Good. I hope they rot.” He flops onto the bed, grabs a golf ball from the bedside table, and throws it out the window. “How was your day?”

 

Fuji gives the Tezuka-cactus a last prod before he steps over to the bed, and flops down right on top of Niou. "Mmm. I think…the days of the curling team are coming to an end. I've struck too much fear into the hearts of my competitors, there are none to be found."

 

Ooh, this could be good. Niou walks his fingers up one arm, then down Fuji’s back. “Oh, yeah? Too bad you’ll lose all your curling muscles. We might have to think of something else to keep you in shape. Hmm...any ideas?” _Play tennis with me. Play tennis with me immediately you weird genius._

 

Fuji's eyes lid, his arms flopping forward over Niou's shoulders. "Niou-kun…how long were you and Yagyuu-kun a thing?" Ah. It's that time of day, apparently. He needs to toss the Tezuka-cactus out of the window before he wants to stab himself with it. It's not even sharp enough anymore, what with it rotting and all. 

 

“I recruited him for the tennis team in our second year,” Niou recounts, raking his nails lightly up Fuji’s back through his shirt. “Stupid shitty glasses guy. I knew he was a weirdo with a dumb crush on Yukimura, but it took him like eight months to ask me to put on the wig. We’ve been fucking since around then, but he’s a really shitty boyfriend.”

 

"Why do we like stupid shitty glasses guys?" Except Tezuka isn't like that at all. He's not stupid or shitty, but--well. Fuji can't even vouch about what sort of boyfriend material he'd be, though he's fairly certain he wouldn't _care_ so long as he had Tezuka even for a day. Fuji butts his head up underneath Niou's chin. At least it feels kind of nice, talking about this sort of thing. "At least he had hang-ups on Yukimura-kun, not _Atobe_." 

 

Niou makes a face, and kind of grunts at that. “That’s...kind of fucking gross. Adding insult to injury, you know? At least Yukimura is _Yukimura_. Atobe’s just _Atobe_.” Makes sense to him, definitely. “I mean, I get that he wants to be with someone so...Captainy, you know? Really charismatic and cool and I mean, everyone loves him. It’s just--shit, no one’s ever going to see anything in that asshole but me, and he doesn’t even fucking appreciate it.”

 

"His loss," Fuji murmurs, and he heaves a long sigh into Niou's shoulder as he flops his face down there. "At least you got to have sex with him." And kiss him. And…do any number of other things. "And play doubles with him." That seems high up there, too, honestly. Every chance given, Tezuka would pick Inui as his partner, or Oishi, or even Kaidou, when training him to be Seigaku's next captain. 

 

Niou’s face is a dark cloud. “They don’t deserve us. Superficial assholes--it’s not like it’s weird to have a thing for Yukimura, but Yagyuu liked him before he even _knew_ him, man. He only thinks with his goddamn dick. Some gentleman.”

 

"…I don't know what Tezuka's thing for Atobe is," Fuji admits. "At least Yukimura-kun doesn't seem terribly impressed by Yagyuu. I liked watching you beat him this morning, by the way. That was good."

 

“Felt good,” Niou agrees, not at all feeling bad about it. “Your advice was really good, thanks.” It had been weirdly erotic, having Fuji coaching him for the last several days. “Yukimura’s got better taste than that. Weird taste, but good taste.”

 

"Mmnn. You're welcome. It didn't take much advice-giving, to be fair." Fuji sighs, long and hard. " _We_ have bad taste, don't we?"

 

“Terrible,” Niou agrees immediately. “He’s so fucking _boring_ , man. He’d rather play golf and make up study guides than fuck, half the time.”

 

"…Is there a more boring sport than golf?" Fuji pauses, then answers his own question, full of self-pity: "Curling."

 

Niou gives Fuji a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “It’s...hey, curling could be worse. At least there’s not as much _walking_. Golf is like, ninety percent walking. And they get mad if you try to attach a string to the ball to make it come back. Or make it explode. Or weight it on one side. Or scoop out the inside so it flies farther and they give up the stupid shitty sport of golf.”

 

In spite of himself, Fuji has to laugh. God dammit. He's gotten _used_ to being a pile of depression and at best mixed emotions, this is weird. "You can explode my curling stones," he offers. "It might make it better."

 

Niou’s eyes brighten. He _likes_ exploding things. “I have a better idea,” he says, eyes glinting. “Let’s put low-grade explosives in them--nothing special, just fireworks and shit--and plant them like land mines in the golf course. Or wherever Tezuka hangs out, that’s fine too as long as Atobe doesn’t sue me.”

 

"Just the golf course, I think. Atobe would probably sue you." And Tezuka's never _done_ anything to him, other than wordlessly reject him, so it's hard to wish harm upon him. Fuji flops down again listlessly. "Besides, Tezuka hangs out in Germany. I don't think we should go to Germany. Do you have a cigarette?" 

 

Niou rolls over and grabs under the bed, unzipping a pocket that shouldn’t be in the mattress. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, handing both to Fuji. “You too? I never taste it in your cum.”

 

"Rare occasions only," Fuji answers with a smile, tugging out a cigarette and lighting it in short order. It takes the edge off the second he breathes in smoke and nicotine, and he flops onto his back, sprawling out. "Eiji hates the smell of them, so I'd figure I'd be accommodating. But, ah…I haven't felt like socializing with him this week very much, so…" 

 

“You,” Niou says, plucking the cigarette from Fuji’s hand and taking a long drag before handing it back, “need to start fucking guys that don’t have boyfriends. I broke up with mine this morning on the tennis court, if you want to start.”

 

Fuji blinks up at him, then slowly, wryly smiles. "That was a pretty cool way to phrase that. How many girls do you pick up with that one alone?" 

 

Niou rolls his eyes. “You don’t need pick-up lines with girls, man, girls are easy. Well, girls at clubs are easy, and those are the only ones I hook up with. Private school girls don’t put out.” 

 

He leans down and nips at Fuji’s neck, liking the way Fuji’s breath is a little quicker when Niou lays on top of him, courtesy of his slight build in contrast to Niou’s solid one. “You know, you’re prettier than most girls. What’s up with that?”

 

"Took after my dad," Fuji cheerfully replies, and blows a stream of smoke right past Niou's ear as he flops his head back, breath hitching a little at the touch of Niou's mouth. "A lot of people used to call me Fujiko-chan, back in middle school. You can, too, if you want. My given name isn't any good." 

 

“Shuusuke is a bit manly for you,” Niou agrees, and leans up to nibble on Fuji’s bottom lip, tasting leftover tobacco. “Do you like it when men call you Fujiko-chan?” His eyes glint, and he slides a hand down and back, squeezing Fuji’s ass.

 

Fuji sucks in a sharper breath immediately. Ah, well. That's incriminating. Most of the things he does around Niou are, though, and he finds he doesn't mind as much as he probably should. "Maybe," he breathlessly answers, flicking the butt of his cigarette away and slinging an arm around Niou's shoulders. 

 

Niou’s mouth opens in a Cheshire grin. “I bet most guys don’t let you top, huh? You look so pretty and breakable, I bet you get fucked a lot.” He bends his head, nibbling slightly on Fuji’s earlobe, then sucking it into his mouth. He’s already getting hard, no idea how they’re going to fuck yet, but knowing someone’s dick is gonna get touched.

 

Just when Fuji is pretty sure he's past the point of wondering _why does my dick get hard at that_ , Niou gives him a few new options to consider. Hmm. Well, no complaints, because it's good, and makes him arch and groan and spread his thighs to squeeze them around Niou's waist. "They're not even good at it," he murmurs, raking a hand down Niou's spine. "You wanna put it in me, Niou-kun? You've been a good boy, so I'll let you." 

 

Niou’s pretty sure that shouldn’t send full-body shivers down his spine, but he’s long since accepted that he’s just kind of a freak in bed...and everywhere, really. “Wouldn’t mind. You have such a great ass. Do you scream, or just get all squeaky when a man shoves a dick in you, Fujiko-chan?”

 

This is a _lot_ better than angsting about cacti, Fuji decides. That's especially obvious when he has to suck in a too-fast breath, his chest heaving a little when he wriggles up to slide his cock hard against Niou's stomach. "Both," he admits, shivering. "I'm noisy. You might want to do something about it." 

 

“Do something about it?” Niou echoes, intrigued and delighted. He rubs down against Fuji, fingers hooking into his waistband and starting to tug it down. “I’ll let you choose. You want me to shove your face into a pillow? Or maybe I should just gag you and tie you up, huh?” He’s long since stopped being concerned that anything he says will freak Fuji out.

 

Fuji groans, eyes fluttering, and his fingers slide around, yanking at the buttons of Niou's shirt. "Maybe," he breathlessly begins, "you should gag me with your jersey or something. I'll try not to tear it." Or maybe he'll leave a nice bite mark in it that Niou gets to explain later.

 

Niou wriggles out of his shirt in an instant, tossing it down to the floor, and braces himself over Fuji with muscled arms. “My nice jersey?” he breathes, eyes dancing as he looks down into Fuji’s eyes. “Maybe I should just stuff a sweaty sock in your mouth, huh? Then you can scream and drool all you want.” _And I won’t have to do laundry._

 

"Either--both--don't care," Fuji pants out, dragging his hands up Niou's arms (ah, god, they're nice, and he has great shoulders too and basically great everything and that makes him _squirm_ ). He doesn't even usually get turned _on_ by the idea of someone shoving him around and stuffing their dick in him, but with Niou, it doesn't fucking matter and the idea kind of makes him writhe in advance. "You feel good, you know that?" 

 

“Good.” Niou leans down and kisses him hard, sucking and nibbling on Fuji’s lips, sliding his tongue between them and groaning before pulling away to grab everything he needs. “The whole fucking point is to make you feel good.” He comes back in a second with lube and a condom and a pile of laundry that contains socks and a jersey and probably some other stuff not worth mentioning. “Pick your poison.”

 

"Marry me." He's more or less serious when he's lust-muddled and his dick is really, really hard. "Don't worry about condoms," Fuji breathlessly tells him, grabbing Niou's clothes out of his hold and deciding to just bury his face in all of them. Probably, that's a stupid thing to say considering both of their practices, but Fuji doesn't care, and it's pointless to care when they've already fucked a dozen times already. He yanks his own shirt off, and wriggles his way into Niou's jersey instead. "You smell really good." 

 

“Shit,” Niou mutters, and has to squeeze his cock hard at the base to keep himself under control. _God, Tezuka’s a fucking idiot._

 

He yanks at Fuji’s shorts and tosses them across the room, then sits back, eyes raking over the sight of Fuji naked except for his jersey, cock leaking against the hem, and he knows he won’t wash it before wearing it again. “God, I could come just watching you.” He squirts lube onto his hand, rubbing up between Fuji’s legs, his eyes lidded. “When’s the last time you got fucked?”

 

Fuji shivers and wriggles, splaying his legs shamelessly wide. "Nn, couple weeks ago? Boring, though." He drags up a pair of Niou's shorts, burying his face into them with a groan. It wouldn't be the first time he's had his face buried into someone else's clothes, but it's definitely the first time they've known about it, which makes him even _harder_. "Finger me, I wanna ride your hand." Niou has _nice_ hands, he knows that damn well by now. 

 

Niou has to squeeze again, just so he doesn’t come right then and there. His lips part, and he nods to those. “I didn’t wear underwear that day,” he breathes, rubbing against his hand. “I’m already so wet, shit, I bet that’s most of the lube you need. Such a pretty slut.”

 

The lube on Fuji’s hole and the precum on his hand are enough, and he shoves in a couple long fingers, spreading and twisting them around. Fuji’s not what he would call especially tight, and even if that’s just natural biology and a good understanding of how to work his own body, it turns him the fuck on. “Nice and loose,” he murmurs. “Gonna swallow my dick real easy, Fujiko-chan.”

 

Fuji's mouth falls open, his thighs bunching and trembling when he plants his feet down into the bed, giving himself better leverage to wriggle down, humping against Niou's hand. "Fuck," he rasps, breathing in deep and long, his eyes rolling into the back of his head when the smell of Niou is so thick in his nose and his cock is so hard that he's not sure there's blood left anywhere else in his body. He's dripping over his own stomach, on that jersey that smells of nothing but _Niou_ , and it takes effort on his own part not to go ahead and give up and come. 

 

It’s kind of nice to know that Niou can do this to Fuji as much as Fuji can do it to him, leave him hard and aching and trying not to come all over himself before he even gets the dick he wants. 

 

“You’re being such a good slut for me,” he murmurs, “with your legs spread so wide, god. You look like you don’t care who comes along and fucks you, hmm?” Not like Niou will let anyone. The degree to which he feels fiercely protective even now is enough to make him worry--or would be, if he gave a shit. 

 

He rubs the head of his cock against the inside of one of Fuji’s thighs, leaving a sticky smear behind as his fingers delve and twist, adding a third and spreading them as far apart as they can go. Yeah, they’re both gonna like this.

 

Fuji _whines_ , high and breathy and needy, his back arching and toes curling as he wriggles down in a slow lurch. He's pretty sure no one's ever fingered him like this, or come _close_ to fucking him like this, and he's all sorts of sure that it's the best thing _ever_ \--mind-numbing and leaving him feeling sort of glazed and twitchy and _fuck_ , Niou has nice hands. "In me," he manages to pant out, clawing one hand up Niou's back and leaving red streaks in his wake. "Get in me, please please _please_ \--" He's going to come before Niou even does it, and that's _new_. 

 

Niou grunts at the sudden rush of blood south, and has to steady himself for a second. Then his mouth twitches, and he rummages under the bed for a minute before coming out with an elastic hair-tie, the kind he uses to secure his rattail. “Think you can hold on until I’m really fucking you to come?” he teases, and slides it down Fuji’s cock, looping it around the shaft and his balls at once to keep it in place. “Maybe you need some help. I want you to enjoy this. Now beg me again, Fujiko-chan.”

 

Fuji sags back into the bed with a hard, aching shudder, twisting partially onto his side and stuffing his face down into Niou's shorts again. Breathing deep doesn't really help when all he can smell is _Niou_ , to the point his eyes cross and his body twitches with every little inhale. "Fuck," he whines, his cock dripping and messy against his stomach, the ache from it making every muscle in his body tense and shiver. "P..please, fuck me--"

 

“Shit,” Niou breathes, and grabs another tie for himself, grunting in satisfaction when it’s properly secured and he can sort of breathe again. His hands slide up the inside of Fuji’s thighs, and he leans over, glad he’s so much _larger_ when he can slide up like this and still purr in Fuji’s ear. “Not Fujiko-chan,” he breathes, guiding the head of his cock to Fuji’s hole--god, he’s so _ready_. “Shuusuke. I’m gonna fuck you,” he says, and starts pushing in, letting that tight heat swallow the head of his cock, “like a _man_.”

 

Well, shit. That's not fair. 

 

Fuji isn't even sure if it's the words or the way Niou's saying his name or the way his cock feels inside that makes his toes curl and his body positively _hum_ , but he knows for a _fact_ that being fucked normally doesn't feel like this. He's also 5000% sure that most of the people that want to put their dicks in him think he's pretty like a girl and it's a lot easier to justify if they just call him a girl, but _this_ \--

 

He gives up and melts, groaning low and long when Niou sinks inside, his body wriggling down and thighs squeezing tight about his hips. "N…Niou-kuuuun…" _Yes yes yes fuck me just like that_. 

 

“Jesus,” Niou gasps, sinking in with less control than he’d intended. God, Fuji’s just _made_ to be fucked, with those whines and the easy slick heat of him, the way he trembles and squeezes and _writhes_. Niou had meant to be _cool_ about this, and take Fuji better than anyone ever had, because it’s pretty fucking obvious he’s had a lot of men in this position.

 

Too bad Fuji makes him lose control.

 

“I,” he pants, grabbing Fuji’s hips and snapping his own up against them, “am going to fuck you so good you’re going to forget your name.” And hopefully, will keep screaming his like that, since that’s the best thing he’s ever heard.

 

Now is the time when Fuji knows he should stuff a sock into his mouth, but that's not really going to happen, not when he's so turned on he can't see straight, and he'd much rather squeak and whine and whimper every time Niou as much as throbs inside of him. 

 

Fuji's voice breaks a little with the next shove deep inside of him and tears prick at the corner of his eyes when he's so, _so_ full and his own cock _hurts_ from being so hard. He ruts down, grabs and claws at Niou's back, tries to drag him down and set his teeth to whatever bit of skin he can reach, and damn it, if this is getting _fucked_ , then he's just going to let Niou tie him up and do it _whenever_. 

 

Niou’s not sure he’s ever fucked someone who _wanted_ it so bad.

 

His eyes cross at how well Fuji takes him, and at the feeling of those nails scratching down his back, those _teeth_ on his neck, his shoulder, his chest. He lurches up, filling Fuji deep with every thrust, pulling back enough to watch the play of emotions on his face.

 

That...was a mistake.

 

Niou falters for a second, movements thrown off course, by just how Fuji _looks_. His eyes are squeezed shut, of course, but his face is so much more expressive than usual, flitting emotions of hunger, lust, pain, _desire_ , pleasure, gratitude, and a million other shadows Niou can’t quite make out. “God,” he mutters, and slams in hard and fast, hips slapping against Fuji’s. “No one fucks like you.”

 

 _Likewise_ is the dazed reply on the tip of Fuji's tongue, impossible to actually say when his voice is caught up in his throat and he can only _squeak_ when Niou grabs at him and shoves him down and fills him again and again with his cock. 

 

Ah, fuck it, he's _done_. 

 

He's been done for awhile know, since he put on Niou's jersey even, and it's with a desperate hand wriggling between them that Fuji tugs off that hair tie, shuddering when he can feel that rush and ache of blood even more acutely. Lurching up and letting his cock drag sticky and slick against Niou's stomach makes him sob, and Fuji clings to his back, bites into his shoulder, more or less muffling a shriek that is probably Niou's name when he spills messily between them.  

 

Fuji’s really unfair.

 

Niou gives him a few more hard _thrusts_ , liking the way it makes Fuji shudder and squeal, before pulling out. His limbs don’t work quite right, but he manages to struggle up, kneeling on either side of Fuji’s narrow shoulders when he rips off the hairtie. 

 

One rough stroke is all it takes before he spills, hot and wet and _messy_ over Fuji’s face, more than he’s come in a long time, and seeing the mess just makes him twitch, cock aching as he spills everything he has, a moaned, strangled, “ _Shuusuke_ …”

 

Fuji _groans_ , shudders, and flops back, boneless and trembling. 

 

It feels really, really fucking good. 

 

"My n-name only sounds good…when you say it," he breathes, cracking open an eye as his tongue flicks out, tasting some of the mess that drips over his lips, and that makes him twitch and tremble anew. "Do you fuck people like that all the time? Because I might die," he dazedly adds. 

 

“No _way_.”

 

Niou flops down onto the bed, rolling onto his back and panting at the ceiling. “Need someone...as good as you,” he pants. “No one’s as good at fucking as you, shit. You better hear that from everyone you’ve ever fucked.”

 

Fuji tilts his head back a little, considering. "Not really," he says, and he thumbs away a streak of stickiness away from an eyelid. "But it's _never_ like we just did. Or any of the times we did it before. I think maybe you're just really good at it--in which case, I'm lucky."

 

“Me, too.” Niou leans forward, long tongue flicking out to lick a stripe up Fuji’s cheek. “You’re so fucking hot, shit. Wanna be my roommate?” It just sort of slips out, and the look on his face instantly goes a little cagey, ready to say he was _just kidding ha ha you fell for it._

 

A startled blink follows, and Fuji peers at him, trying to figure out if he's serious. It's bad form to ask, probably. "…I _was_ thinking about transferring here," he tentatively says, annoyed and unsure about why the idea makes him actually _excited_ for a change. "Do you really want a roommate, though? You seem to have a nice setup. I feel bad just having my cacti here."

 

“...would you actually want to?” Niou asks, dropping the mask a little bit. “I mean, there are probably lots of less annoying people to live with. You probably already have a roommate that doesn’t come in through the window at 2am and stuff screwdrivers in the mattresses.” Okay, don’t be a weenie, come out and say it. “But I’m serious, if you want to.”

 

"I live at home and my mother is a housewife and my sister is an actress and my little brother wants nothing to do with me and never comes home--someone coming in through the window at 2am and has screwdrivers in mattresses sounds a lot cooler, actually." Fuji's eyes lid again before he shifts and curls up slowly into Niou's chest. "Ahh, Eiji will be upset with me, if I transfer. But I want to."

 

Niou immediately curls his arms around Fuji, nuzzling into honey-brown hair. “We can fuck all the time if you transfer,” he says unnecessarily. “Until we’ve got enough stamina that we can do it like that five or six times in a day. And we can play tennis if you want.”

 

The more Fuji thinks about it, the more he misses…tennis. Actual tennis. 

 

That's weird. 

 

Tennis, for years, has been about surpassing Tezuka, about proving that he's _worthy_ to Tezuka, and even still, he's never been able to play like he wanted to around him. Fuji frowns, buries himself closer to Niou's chest, and thoughtfully reaches a hand up to tug on his rattail. It's the real one today. He can tell. "I'm not sure Azobu needs any new tennis talent. I'm really out of practice, anyway."

 

“Azobu could use some shaking up. They’re so used to the same old team of regulars from Rikkai, it’s hard for any new blood to come in.” Niou butts his head against Fuji’s hand. Strange, how much he likes Fuji touching his head and no one else. “We can practice if you want to join the team, before you challenge everyone.”

 

Fuji takes the hint and slides his hand up into the thick of Niou's hair, slowly kneading his fingers along his scalp. "That might be better," he murmurs. "Just playing to play might be good for awhile. I'm still not sure…ahh, sorry, I'm being kind of dumb about it, aren't I? It's just tennis." _It's the only way I could even come close to Tezuka_. 

 

“It’s not dumb.” The words come out a little more quietly than he’d anticipated, and something aches in a spot Niou can’t scratch. “If you don’t care about tennis without him, stay away. I listened to so much shitty poetry when I was going after Yagyuu, I know how that is.”

 

"It's…not quite that." Fuji heaves a sigh, his smile wry. "It's more like…I'm realizing it was the only thing we had in common at all, and I'm realizing even more that it still didn't change anything, no matter how good I was. Ah, well. I think he just has a thing for weird Europeans, what can I do."

 

“Fuck me instead,” Niou suggests, and worms his way sinuously against Fuji’s side. “I guarantee I’m better in bed than that shitty glasses guy.”

 

"Oh, there is no doubt in my mind," Fuji readily agrees, and throws an arm and a leg over him. "Tezuka was definitely a virgin. Like, the biggest virgin that ever did virgin. Once, we all got a little drunk after a match at Taka-san's sushi restaurant, and I definitely flat out told him I wanted to suck him off and he asked me what that had to do with tennis. I don't think he remembered later, he's a lightweight." 

 

Niou stares at him, then says sadly, “A moment of silence for Atobe’s dick. That is probably not getting very world-class treatment.”

 

"It's a humbling experience, I'm sure. Oh well, he could use a few of those." 

 

A sudden, cheerful ring from his phone makes Fuji sigh, and he slowly untangles himself. "That's my sister," he explains, stiffly throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "I wonder if my school has called her and is complaining that I skipped so much again…" 

 

"Shuu-chan! Where are you?!"

 

Fuji blinks, and rocks back against the side of the bed to sit down. "At Azobu. I told you, I was visiting a friend--"

 

"Well, your other friends at school called the police because they thought you were kidnapped, and so they're here looking for you!" 

 

Fuji sort of wants to cheerfully slit his wrists and be done with it. God _dammit_ , Eiji. "…Well, I haven't been kidnapped, and I'm just right here in a dorm room with another tennis player…" 

 

"I'm sending them over there to check on you. Stay. _Put_."

 

"Neesan--"

 

 _Click_. Fuji sighs, long and hard, and flops backward to stare up at the ceiling. "I'm definitely transferring. How bad are the Azobu exams?" 

 

Niou tries not to get too excited too fast. Just because Fuji _says_ he’s transferring doesn’t mean he actually will. People say all sorts of weird shit. “Not too bad. They’re really _progressive_ , you know, they don’t focus as much on exams as a lot of other schools. It’s kind of hard to cheat, but it’s a lot easier to do a good job.”

 

Mentally, he starts rearranging his room. “You mind a small closet? That one over there is--well, it’s not _empty_ , but I can empty it out.”

 

"I'm not much of a packrat, so you don't have to make much room for me." Fuji sighs, flipping his phone around in his hand. "Mostly it's just tennis and photography things…ah, damn it, I have to get dressed, my sister is legitimately sending the police over here because Eiji thought I was kidnapped again."

 

Niou rolls over, tugging on a pair of loose shorts and deciding that’s enough of clothing. “Again? Okay, you really need to explain, and I’m not someone who says that lightly.”

 

"Okay, I definitely got kidnapped like _once_ , I'll give them that," Fuji says, sighing as he briefly thinks about shrugging off Niou's jersey--and then changes his mind and leaves it on, just grabbing for his own shorts instead. "The other times were debatable. I got away!" he cheerfully adds. "So it's fine." 

 

“Okay, but who would want to kidnap you?” Niou asks, grabbing the waistband of Fuji’s shorts and tugging him back onto the bed. “How’d they do it? Did you get hurt?” There it is again, that fierce protectiveness, and now it’s even in his voice.

 

Fuji blinks back at him, brow furrowing as he flops down on top of Niou. "Usually creeps, I guess? Mm, and I was pretty young the first few times, so I don't remember much. Or actually, the most recent time I really don't remember, I was pretty out of it. Eiji likes to remind me that I didn't realize I was 'kidnapped' until I got away. I'm just good at finding my way into bad situations, I guess." 

 

“Well, stop it.” Niou’s arm tightens, and he leans up to give Fuji a firm kiss. “I don’t want you going anywhere. Was it money? Did they drug you or something? What happened to them? They’re not still out there looking for you, are they?”

 

"Niou-kun." Fuji puts a hand in his face, rather like one would stop an over-exuberant dog. "It's fine. _I'm_ fine." Still, something unknots in his chest, and he tentatively leans up, pressing his lips against Niou's beauty mark. "I'll just go places with you. You can hit people, it'll be great." 

 

Niou raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t push Fuji away as he probably would (and has) anyone else. “I don’t really hit people that much,” he says, relaxing down to the bed. “I’ve never really hit anyone except Sanada-fukubuchou and when I was messing around with my friends. I’m not _that_ kind of a delinquent.” He raises up onto his elbows, and says quietly, “But I’d hit someone for you.”

 

"Mm. Then I'm honored." And he is, really. He huddles down into the bed a little, telling himself to stop smiling like a stupid idiot but that's not happening right then. "I don't think anyone has hit someone for me before…ah, no. Taka-san did a few times. He doesn't remember though, and it was definitely with a racket. Please don't break your racket for me." 

 

Niou shifts a little. “Um, I don’t think I would. I like my racket. It fits my hand and everything. But I’d totally fuck someone up. I’d probably be more creative than just hitting, though. Illusion’s pretty useful. Hey, did I hear you say the police are coming, because there’s some stuff I kind of need to hide.”

 

"Maybe I'll just go downstairs and wait for them."

 

“Maybe...outside would be better,” Niou says hesitantly. “You’re not _really_ supposed to be here, remember all the fence climbing?”

 

"Mm. Yes. Oh well." Fuji rolls out of bed with a solid thump. "My cacti are here now, though, so I'm becoming one with this building." 

 

“It’s for the best,” Niou agrees. “We’ll get you a key if you really want to stay. Then we can only come in through the window when we feel like it.”

 

"That sounds good." Slowly, Fuji picks himself up, and tries to brush himself off so as to better not look like the victim of a crime. "I'm keeping your jersey. For now, I mean." 

 

Niou grins. “Just as long as you don’t take it by beating me in the rankings, you can have it as long as you want. You’ve got a big love bite under your ear, comb your hair forward.”

 

Fuji shrugs, and leaves his hair the way it is. "Later, Niou-kun," he breezily says, and drifts out slowly, much to the interest of a good portion of the student body. Hmm. Maybe the police are already here. God dammit, Eiji and Yumiko.

 

“Fuji Shuusuke!” The voice carries, but doesn’t belong to a policeman. A man in a suit strides down the hallway, looking rather annoyed by the inconvenience. “Fuji Shuusuke! Is there a Fuji Shuusuke in the--who the hell are you?” he asks abruptly, seeing Fuji’s unfamiliar face. From inside the room, Niou makes a sound halfway between a hiss and a grumble.

 

"Fuji Shuusuke," Fuji answers with a beaming smile. "More or less." Ah, he's already making an impression. So much for transferring, it was a short-lived dream. 

 

The man’s face clears slightly, and he nods. Then, he puts on a somewhat _simpering_ smile, and gives Fuji a low bow. “Fuji-sama, we apologize for any misunderstandings or inconveniences you may have encountered during your, ah, tenure here. Of course, we at Azobu High would like to express our sincerest apologies for any situation in which you may have been placed that made you and your family feel _threatened_. We can assure you, we would never intend to hold you hostage against your will.” He eyes the marks on Fuji’s neck, and starts visibly sweating.

 

Ah. This is going to be one of those things. Rich family and actress sister all equals sensation if child is kidnapped, _doesn't it._

 

"This is a super big misunderstanding, please don't apologize!" Fuji brightly dismisses with a wave of his hand, and--ah, right, bowing and such. "I'm very sorry for the inconvenience, I'll go and clear all of this up and be on my way." God _dammit_ , Eiji. Fuji contemplates how many angry text messages he should send and at what frequency. 

 

Or…fuck, he showed up along with the cops, didn't he.

 

 _I hate my life_ Fuji cheerfully thinks, and the stare he fixates on Eiji when he walks outside _better_ be indicative of that. 

 

Eiji thoroughly ignores it. “Fuji-kuuuun!” he yells, running forward and launching himself at the other boy, arms around his neck as if he _didn’t_ outweigh Fuji by a good few kilos. “I thought you were dead and kidnapped again! Your sister said you haven’t been home in _days_ , and they said you left school with a weird guy!”

 

Fuji settles for a noncommittal grunt at first, swaying where he stands. "Eiji. By the basic laws of the universe, I couldn't be dead _again_." Now he's just nitpicking semantics, but damn it, he wanted to curl up with Niou all night. 

 

…Even if that's a weird sort of thought that he can't quite remember having before regarding someone. 

 

“The first time would be _worse_!” Eiji insists, and pulls back enough to lean forward again, squeezing him hard. “Why did you miss school all week? Where _were_ \--I mean, I guess you were here, but _why_?”

 

"I was getting a tour. Ah, well, more or less." Fuji sighs, half-heartedly trying to wriggle away. It's for the best if he's just blunt and gets it over with. "I think I'm going to transfer here."

 

Eiji’s mouth falls open. “What? No! You can’t!” A horrible thought occurs to him, and his eyes narrow. “Do you like their tennis better than ours? Are you mad at me? Did I do something?”

 

"It doesn't have anything to do with you, Eiji. I mean, _now_ I'm kind of annoyed with you, because you called the police on me…" Which now, thankfully, seem to be losing interest because he's walking and talking and unharmed (save for a little bit pleasantly achy). Fuji rocks back onto his heels. "I think…hmm. I think I have a boyfriend." 

 

Eiji’s anger vanishes immediately. “Fuji! YAY! Congratulations!” Just for good luck, he turns a cartwheel. “Who? Who? Is he nice? Is he at Azobu? Did he--ooh, he’s bitey! Yay, Fuji!”

 

"He's very bitey," Fuji says, and has to stop himself from sounding too dreamy about it. Ahh, he wanted to _stay_. He huddles down a bit into Niou's jersey. At least Niou will take good care of his cactus overnight. "He goes here and lives in the dorms. And plays tennis."

 

“Ehh, are you gonna get back into tennis?” Eiji has to stop himself from clapping his hands. “That’s _great_! I think I like him already! Wait--if he’s on the Azobu team, I’ll probably know who he is. Oh, oh, should I guess?”

 

"You can guess," Fuji mildly allows. "Also, I think Yukimura wants to steal you, so maybe you should transfer, too." 

 

Eiji blinks at that, and looks over his shoulder. “Oishi!! Get the rackets, we’re going to the tennis court! Oh, does he want to see me play now?” he asks Fuji anxiously. It’s not that he doesn’t love his high school, but Yukimura is a real _captain_ , the kind he hasn’t had since Tezuka went to Germany.

 

"What? Right now? Eiji, it's going to get _late_ , and you can't just not do your homework again," Oishi frets. 

 

"Maybe you should come by for tomorrow morning's practice…or in the afternoon. I think we've already caused enough of a stir here tonight…" Fuji muses, glancing back over his shoulder. At least most of the curiosity has diminished. _Most_. He kind of hopes Niou is still spying on the whole mess through the window. "I don't know if I'm going to play yet, but you definitely should." 

 

“Nnn, _fine_ ,” Eiji says, and tries not to sulk with marginal success. “But I’m going to skip morning classes, then. And you should play too, Fuji. Especially if I make it in.” He worries at his lip, and steps forward again, clinging a bit to Fuji’s arm. “You’re really okay? And happy? I was really worried about you.”

 

"You don't have to be worried about me. I'm fine, really." Fuji smiles faintly, and reaches up a hand to pet Eiji's hair. "Thank you for trying to make sure I was okay, but please don't call the police again. I'm pretty sure I already have a reputation and I haven't even gotten in yet." 

 

Eiji flicks him unrepentantly in the head, pokes him in the cheek, then butts against his hand. “I wouldn’t have called the police if you answered your phone!”

 

"But I was busy having sex." 

 

“For _five days?_ ”

 

"Kind of. I played some tennis." Same difference, really.

 

“Heyyyy, you wouldn’t play tennis with me for _months_ , and I sucked your dick too!”

 

"Can you two _please_ lower your voices?" Oishi hisses. 

 

"I was just helping him with his game," Fuji says, unrepentant. "It's nothing against you. I just haven't felt like playing for a long time."

 

Eiji folds his arms in front of his chest, not entirely sure whether to be upset or not. “I could have made you feel like playing. I just...you’re not gonna forget about me if you come to Azobu and I don’t, right? Did you want more blowjobs? Are you mad at me?”

 

"…Eiji, I don't think you could have made me feel like playing. And that's not your fault," Fuji says with a sigh, shaking his head. "I'm not going to forget about you. We still talk to everyone else still, remember, even though they go to different schools. Taka-san and Inui and everyone still at Seigaku…we all still stay in touch. And I already told you, I'm not mad at you. Blowjobs aren't a factor."

 

Eiji wavers, feeling like he _should_ be upset, or happy, or both, and really confused and unsure about where exactly to go with his emotions. 

 

Oh, well. Fuji seems happy, so it’s probably best to be happy for him. “Oh, hey, I forgot to guess! It’s not Yukimura-buchou, is it?”

 

"Definitely not. Why climb a mountain when someone's already built a condo at the top?" Fuji hums. 

 

Eiji tilts his head slowly to the side. “Huh? That’s...a no, then. Um, it’s not the crazy seaweed devil guy, right? That sounds...not safe.”

 

"He's still a third year in middle school, remember? And Rikkai's captain." Really, how could Eiji forget about Echizen hissing and spitting for months after Seigaku's loss in the Kantou? Though, to be fair, Fuji tuned most of that out.

 

“Oh, right, right. Umm, is it the cake guy? Or baldy? Fuji, is it _both of them_?” That actually sounds kind of interesting, but— “If you’re gonna leave me and Oishi you can’t get with them, we beat them at doubles!”

 

"It's not them, don't worry."

 

Oishi strangles any and all comments regarding Eiji's phrasing about Fuji _leaving them_. 

 

Eiji frowns. “Glasses? Illusion? Ecstas--no, he’s at Shitenhouji. Vice-Captain Sanada?”

 

"Well, _one_ of those is correct… Okay, hint time. Not Sanada, he's got a condo, too. Definitely husband material, though."

 

“I’m pretty sure you can’t marry a guy,” Eiji says, frowning. “Unless you wear a dress or something, I think they have a law about that in Okinawa or something. Um, does that mean it’s Glasses or Illusion? Uh...Illusion? Didn’t you play a game with him once?” It’s kind of hard to remember, they’ve all played a lot of games.

 

"Bingo!" Fuji cheerfully congratulates. "And yes, I played him in the finals at Nationals. He was good, now he's better." 

 

Eiji scowls. “Oishi and I played him and Glasses. He’s kind of an asshole.”

 

"Be nice," Fuji says, frowning back at him. "Niou-kun is fun and he gave me his jersey and he's babysitting my cacti. Yagyuu is definitely an asshole, though, I'll give you that."

 

Eiji’s eyes widen. “Whoa, you let him watch Tezuka? Ahh, it must be love!”

 

"Tezuka is rotting and dying again and might be thrown out the window," Fuji moodily replies.

 

A slow pat to Fuji’s shoulder is sort of sympathetic, but not so much as it had been for Tezuka The First. “At least he won’t scratch you anymore. The Tezukas always seem to be the most vicious.”

 

"They're monsters," Fuji agrees huffily. "Perhaps it's for the best. No more Tezukas. I named another rotting one Yagyuu and there's a good one named Niou." 

 

Whenever Fuji spends more than twenty seconds talking about cacti, Eiji’s eyes start to glaze over. “Uh huh. Very prickly.”

 

Niou likes his cacti a hell of a lot more. "You should probably learn to appreciate plants more. Yukimura has an affinity for them, too. And you _know_ , I definitely heard him say he was seriously considering you as a reserve player if you joined, at the very _least_." Fuji leans in closer. "They're kind of like yakuza here. Are you prepared for that, Eiji?" 

 

Eiji’s eyes go wide. “Y-yakuza? Whoa, do you have a tattoo now?” He starts yanking at Niou’s jersey, determined to find the ink.

 

"Not _yet_ ," Fuji brightly answers. "But you never know. Please don't stretch out his jersey, I want to take good care of it."

 

Eiji nods, and sighs. “Well...I guess if you’re okay and you have your cactuses and you don’t have tattoos I shouldn’t have called the police. I’ll come back in the morning, okay? Are you staying here tonight, or do you wanna do ramen?”

 

"I think my sister will kill me if I don't actually show my face at home--Yuuta has already given her and my mom something of a complex, you know? So ramen it is." Fuji gives him a light poke in the side. "Next time, just leave me to die. No police." 

 

Eiji beams down at him. “Deal!”

 

Eiji probably shouldn’t be so excited to show off, the next morning. He grabs his tennis bag, does his last-minute homework (whoops) and boards a train, meeting Oishi on the platform and attempting not to bother him too much on the train and failing happily. 

 

Once at Azobu, he tries to decide whether to affect a “just checking on our friend” attitude or a “just dropping by” attitude, and forgets his decision as soon as he sees Fuji flirting with Illusion. Ew. “Oi, oi, Fuji! You said you were gonna introduce me!”

 

Niou’s eyebrows climb. “A kitten followed you home.”

 

"He does that." Fuji wonders when he said he was going to introduce Eiji, but ah well. Hopefully Yukimura won't mind too much, though he seems to have something of a split personality when it comes to day-to-day life and being on the court. He leans back from where he sits on the bleachers, smiling at Eiji. "I'm glad you could stop by, though."

 

"There's no need for introductions."

 

Damn, but Yukimura knows how to make an entrance even just to morning practice, Fuji wryly thinks, with his jersey neatly fluttering from his shoulders and Sanada, carrying both of their bags, in tow. "Kikumaru Eiji, was it? You've made a name for yourself in just one season." 

 

Eiji gets an eager little flush in his cheeks. “Two seasons, now! And we’re going right to the top, me and Oishi! So...is it okay if I warm up with you guys? I stopped by to see my friend.”

 

"Seems like we're picking up a lot of strays from your school lately," Yukimura lightly teases. "Warm up, and maybe you can rally a little with me." 

 

Fuji leans close to Niou and whispers, "It's Eiji's wet dream come true." 

 

Niou’s grin turns into a wide-eyed interest as he watches the redhead warm up. “Huh. Seigaku warm-ups look...a little more _enthusiastic_ than the ones we always do. Does everyone do that much bouncing and jumping?”

 

"That's definitely just him," Fuji hums. "There's a reason why he wears spandex underneath everything. You should see his tan lines, they're super cute." 

 

“Ooh, tan lines!” Niou seems a bit more perky than he usually does in the mornings. “Does he wear it under his top, too? I like seeing your belly button when you jump around.”

 

"Nope, just underneath his shorts." Fuji gives Niou's side an idle poke. "I'm going to have stretch marks soon, fair warning. I'm pregnant and you're the father." 

 

Marui, stepping past them, swallows his gum whole and starts choking. 

 

“Ah, sounds about right.” Niou reaches over, stroking over Fuji’s stomach. “Him or her? Wait, no, him. I feel it. Thought about names yet?”

 

"Him? You're sure?" Fuji's head tilts as he thinks. "Niji." Ha, that's really funny, actually. "Fuou. Take your pick. Or maybe we could just name him Tennis." 

 

"Niou, are you going to sit or are you going to run?" Yukimura calls over to him. "And Fuji, if you're going to come to practices, then you're going to work." 

 

"Tennis. That's definitely his name," Fuji declares.

 

Marui puts as much distance between himself and their weird not-baby as he can. "Since when can two guys do that?" he hisses to Jackal.

 

“I don’t know, maybe Niou turned into a girl when they did it?” Jackal asks, flummoxed. For a minute, it almost sounds plausible. It’s _Niou_.

 

Niou gives a last pat to baby Tennis, then frowns. “No, wait, two penises, it must be twins. No, wait, five. Nope, that’s a hand. Guess it’s Teni-chan instead of Teni-kun. Run laps with me, Momma?”

 

"But Fuji's the one that's pregnant, that can't be right!" Marui argues, more stressed by the moment. 

 

"Mm, let's go, Daddy," Fuji happily agrees, trotting off after Niou after a quick stretch. 

 

"Can that seriously happen? _Can it?_ " Marui hisses, panicked, and giving Jackal a solid shake. "Sanada-fukubuchooou, we need your expertise!" 

 

Sanada trots over, wipes sweat from his hairline, and puts his hat back on. “What expertise? You want to work on something?”

 

"How is it possible for two men to have a child together?!"

 

Nearby, Yanagi drops one of his pens. Yukimura nearly spits out his drink. Fuji, discretely, gives Niou a high-five.

 

Sanada stares, his face turning slowly red in a mixture of embarrassment and a sort of fury. “Who told you that?”

 

“Puri!” 

 

“Damn it!”

 

"But Fuji said he was pregnant!" Marui whines in protest. 

 

"It's a girl," Fuji calls over his shoulder. 

 

"See?!" Marui resumes shaking Jackal. " _What if_ _that happens somehow_."

 

“He’s not pregnant!” Sanada thunders. “Yukimura-buchou, is this one of your pixiv things?”

 

If one looks closely enough, it's obvious that even Yanagi is snickering. "What's a pixiv?" Yukimura serenely tosses back, and downs a Red Bull whole. 

 

Marui scowls. "Sanada-fukubuchou, with all due respect, maybe your sources are wrong! _You_ were the one that said we can't sit next to girls over the age of 12 because they'll get pregnant and that was definitely a lie!"

 

Eiji stops mid-bounce. “Eh? But then you wouldn’t even be able to _kiss_ girls, that would be terrible!”

 

“It’s best not to get distracted by temptation! Girls over 12 are temptation for most of you!”

 

“God, he’s not even trying,” Niou says under his breath. “Our child better not be that obvious.”

 

"Our child," Fuji says solemnly, grasping hold of one of Niou's hands, "will be perfect." 

 

"But you didn't say it was because of temptation! You just said it was because _sitting next to them_ would make them pregnant! Do you know how difficult that made my life on White Day?" Marui furiously blows a bubble. 

 

Sanada shoots a dirty look at Yukimura. “I...was misinformed,” he mutters. 

 

Jackal cracks up laughing. “Buchou, what else did you tell him about girls? That they shoot laser beams out of their nipples?”

 

“Everyone run twenty more laps!”

 

"I think the term is 'mishearing', Sanada," Yukimura sweetly cuts in. "Maybe you should get that checked."

 

The bubble pops and Marui blows another one in short order. "So we all suffered because of Fukubuchou's bad hearing?" 

 

"He relies far too much on telepathy these days," Yanagi deadpans. 

 

"But none of this explains how _two men_ \--"

 

"Tennis is a miracle child!" Fuji calls over his shoulder.

 

Niou speeds up, snatching Marui’s gum from his mouth and flicking it into his hair. “Respect the miracle of life!” he says, slowing down to wait for Fuji.

 

“You _definitely_ said that sitting with girls over 12 would get them pregnant,” Sanada insists to Yukimura. “What else is a lie? Do they also not keep spare keys in the heels of their high shoes?”

 

Marui shrieks and takes off after Niou, grabbing for his rattail. 

 

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Yukimura says, completely straight-faced. "All I know is that my biological clock seems to be ticking, Japanese-Symbol-of-Virility-kun."

 

Niou grins at Fuji, and lengthens his stride, enjoying the feeling of the rattail coming off in Marui’s hand. 

 

Sanada, meanwhile, stares in confused horror. “What is that supposed to mean?”

 

"Niou, you _asshole!_ " Marui throws the thing, stomping on it after the fact.

 

Yukimura sets a hand on Sanada's arm, and says very seriously, "Genichirou, I think you're pregnant." 

 

Yanagi keels over.

 

Eiji looks around, forlorn and extremely confused. “Is anyone gonna play tennis? Or is everyone just gonna talk about mpreg?”

 

"Ah, sorry, sorry," Yukimura dismisses, leaving Sanada to sputter. "We're normally much more on task, it's just one of those days."

 

"Yagyuu isn't here, by the way," Yanagi says once he regains his composure. "A student council meeting, I believe…" 

 

He'll probably be using that excuse for awhile. Yukimura shrugs and picks up his racket. "That's fine. I have a kitten to play with in the meantime."

 

Eiji’s face goes abruptly the same color as his hair, and his fingers slip slightly on the racket. He casts a somewhat chagrined glance at Oishi, then bounds onto the court. “All right, Buchou! But I won’t hold back!” _Especially not if you call me that again._

 

Oishi, having long resigned himself to catering to Eiji's world of class-skipping delinquency for the sake of his odd idol crush, merely sighs, long and heavy.

 

"'Buchou'? Already?" Yukimura teases, tossing Eiji a ball. "Don't you think your current captain will be jealous? You can serve, and I don't expect you to hold back. I like it when kittens have claws." 

 

 _Dammit_. Eiji rubs his legs together a bit, glad that he’s wearing his elastic under his clothes. It’s nice and tight, and keeps him from being embarrassing. He snatches the ball out of midair, and trots back to the baseline. “Love-love, service!” He leaps into the air, draws back his arm, and lets fly.

 

He definitely has a nice serve to him, Yukimura thinks: fast, precise, and well-placed, but not unreturnable. Yukimura slams the ball back with a solid backhand, straight to the baseline. 

 

Marui, satisfied that Jackal has gotten most of the gum out of his hair, turns to actually watch. "Not fun to play him if you serve and volley--super rude," he sniffs. 

 

Fuji idly thinks Eiji's dick is too hard for him to care.

 

Eiji turns a flip on the way to the next ball, sending it back with a little, “Hoi hoi!” before landing. He pushes off from the ground again, noticing quickly how Yukimura is trying to push him around the court to tire him, leaping higher even so to slam down the ball. “Nya, too slow, Buchou!”

 

“Is it just me,” Niou says idly, moving to rest his hands on Fuji’s stomach from behind, “or is he like, ridiculously hard? You can see it on his face.”

 

"Super hard," Fuji agrees, leaning his head back to rest it against Niou's shoulder. "It's impressive he can still move around like that…" 

 

It would be a little too easy to hit it straight back into the same corner, and so Yukimura doesn't bother. Instead, he jumps up to catch the ball on its higher bounce, and _gently_ taps it over instead, letting it catch on the net to topple over neatly and slowly.

 

"Rudest buchou," Marui hisses. 

 

Eiji dives for a rising shot, but a hundredth of a second too late, and he winds up smashing face-first into the court. “Owowowowow,” he mutters under his breath, and hauls himself up, tossing the ball over as he wipes the blood off his cheek. “Your serve! Nice drop-shot!”

 

“Kitten has guts,” Niou remarks, nuzzling against Fuji’s ear.

 

"Eiji! Don't hurt yourself!" Oishi calls out, frowning. 

 

"Kitten has a _lot_ of guts," Fuji agrees, smiling. 

 

"You almost had that, very nice," Yukimura congratulates, grinning as he catches the ball. "It's your footwork. Less backflips, more working on lengthening your actual stride." He flips his jersey off as he turns back toward the baseline, throwing it into Marui's face, who seems infinitely pleased that he is the jersey receptacle for the day. 

 

"Is Yukimura always this erotic?" Fuji idly asks, wondering if he's allowed to be as entranced by the way a person moves as he is when he isn't interested in fucking them at all. "I thought he was more _neurotic_ before, actually." It's a flat serve, nothing special, but hard and solid and Fuji wonders if Eiji's dick just keeps getting harder.

 

“Oh, he was,” Niou assures him, watching the progress of the ball. “That was right when he got out of the hospital. You couldn’t _possibly_ think he was okay three weeks after that, right? I think Akaya was the only one who didn’t know something was wrong. He’s mostly back to his old self now, probably.”

 

Eiji takes a deep breath, mutters something to himself, and leaps after the next ball, lengthening his stride and managing to whack the ball back. Then, just because he can, he turns a backflip in celebration. There’s a time and a place, after all.

 

"Good!" Well, mostly good, considering Yukimura hits it back clear over his head while that backflip is still going. 

 

"I figured it was impossible," Fuji admits. "But, you know…I suppose we've seen crazier stuff. That, and I figured he was hyped up on enough steroids to kill a man. Ah, Eiji looks so happy right now."

 

“I don’t think they were steroids,” Niou says, “but he definitely popped a hell of a lot of pills during that tournament. He wasn’t right, man.”

 

Eiji’s next bounce brings him close to the net, close enough to tap a ball along the net and let it land without bouncing. “Sometimes jumping is good, Yukimura-Buchou! Maybe you should jump a little more!”

 

Yukimura smiles.

 

"Oh, god," is the collective mutter amongst the regulars.

 

Yukimura flips the ball up with his racket, tossing it back to Eiji for his serve. "If you want me to jump," he says, eyes lidded, "make me, kitten." He turns around, drifting away. "What was that, 1-1?" 

 

"Lewd," Fuji murmurs, eyebrows lifting in amusement. "At least he's back on his game now. I can't imagine something like that. I'd probably just quit." 

 

“Probably,” Niou agrees, and doesn’t clarify whether he means he’d quit as well, or whether Fuji definitely would. “I’m pretty sure he still pops pills sometimes when it gets bad. I can tell, but I don’t think even Sanada knows for sure.”

 

Eiji’s eyes dance, and he bounces on the balls of his feet, grabbing the ball in midair. “One-one,” he calls, and twists his racket slightly in his hand, combining it with a jumping smash of a serve to the far corner of the court.

 

It's when it becomes a solid rally that Fuji actually tunes out the distraction of Niou's weight against him and scent in his nose (god, he _does_ like that someone wants to touch him, though) and _watches_. 

 

If there's anyone that can follow through a hard ball, it's Eiji. He has the eyes and reflexes for it, even if he's sometimes slow to realize how he's being manipulated on the court. Yukimura hits nothing but hard shots and Eiji tends to go diving after him, but he doesn't exactly _miss_ , and neither of them budge much at all. 

 

Fuji, though, for all his months in not playing, _knows_ he can still analyze a player and figure exactly out how and when to hit, and if he were Eiji in this situation… 

 

His head cocks slightly to the side. "…Mm. Yukimura's weak on his right leg. When he pivots." Fuji says it quietly, for Niou's ears only, because really, what's the etiquette here at Azobu, especially regarding one's captain? It got a little dodgy at Seigaku with Tezuka sometimes, even, and no one tended to comment even when he'd flat out drop a racket and sit with ice on his elbow for three hours afterwards (Fuji would keep bringing him fresh ice). "He plays a fast game, so it's hard to tell, but when he gets stuck in a rally…he's got a habit to hide it. Eiji's hitting to his backhand to make him jump off it and he's pissed about it, see?" Of course, as he says it, Yukimura's next shot hits low and deep to the back left corner, catching Eiji going the wrong way, and Fuji sighs, shrugging. 

 

“It’s a good observation,” Niou murmurs, eyes sharpening as he focuses on Yukimura’s knee. Fuji isn’t wrong, but Yukimura won’t be happy to know someone’s seen it. “He’s pretty good about hiding it most of the time. I’m not sure if your Kikumaru’s doing that on purpose or instinctively, what kind of a player is he?”

 

Eiji brushes off the loss, saying something to himself that sounds like, “Don’t mind, Eiji.” Then he leaps, and delivers a serve that even Oishi always had trouble hitting back, expecting this time that Yukimura will manage. It’s weird….no matter where he hits it, Yukimura always manages to hit it back. The first tingling pricks of apprehension start going up his spine. Is this what playing the Child of God is like?

 

"Probably instinctively. He's just got a really sharp eye; he doesn't play to mess with anyone." Fuji whistles underneath his breath as Yukimura's return shot hits the court with an _audible_ solidness and weight. "For all the issues he should still have a year later, I still don't want to hit that." He flaps his hand a little. "Delicate wrists."

 

Niou grabs that wrist and gives it a sharp nip, feeling the interlacing lines of old scars on the inside of Fuji’s wrists. Yeah, he’s got to get Fuji a hobby besides cacti, one that isn’t so painful. “Won’t last long now,” he says, nodding at the redhead as he suddenly looks at his own racket, confused. “Buchou’s got him. He’s got the yips.”

 

"Super rude," Fuji tsks, and he wriggles his fingers a little. "I hope he doesn't serve to Eiji's face, like he did with Echizen." He sort of has to laugh at that now, because _fuck_.

 

"Bunta?"

 

"4-1, " the jersey receptacle supplies. 

 

Yukimura's next two serves rocket past Eiji as aces, and the third skims and fluffs out Eiji's hair. "Well," Yukimura brightly says, "that's that, I guess! Stop shaking, kitten, you're cuter when you're bouncing." 

 

Oishi hops off the bleachers, trotting over to Eiji in an instant. "You played really well, Eiji--are you all right?" he worriedly presses, taking his racket from him before he can drop it. 

 

Eiji shakes himself out if it, stumbling against Oishi’s side. “Th-that was weird. Is that the yips thing?” he demands of Yukimura, though not as defiantly as he probably would have half an hour ago.

 

"The start of it. Ah, you lasted awhile before it started, though, that was good," Yukimura lightly dismisses, and idly starts on his third caffeinated drink of the day. "We can play a full set next time and you can see how you feel. Or we can do it right now, I don't mind." 

 

Oishi strangles a protest at that and grabs Eiji's arm protectively. "Another time."

 

Eiji wipes sweat out of his face. He doesn’t push Oishi away, but doesn’t exactly relax against him, either. “I can do another one! I’m not tired, I don’t get tired easily anymore.” He’d worked _hard_ for that, and wants people to know.

 

"Eiji, maybe you should still just take it _easy_ …"

 

"I know exactly how much you've improved. Ah, that's why I was wondering," Yukimura lightly prefaces, tossing Eiji a bottle of water. Hopefully, he has enough touch back to catch it by now. "Are you thinking of transferring to Azobu like your friend?"

 

Eiji manages to catch the water, though he squeezes the bottle a bit hard to make sure he doesn’t drop it. “Maybe,” he says, though he hasn’t really considered it, not _really_. “Are there any spots open for me and Oishi?”

 

"Oh, we're really not looking for another doubles pair. Honestly, I think you'd fare better in singles. You're plenty capable of making your own game plans now, why bother with extra weight to haul around?" 

 

Fuji tries very hard to strangle a laugh. _Well, it's kind of really true, but…_ Ahah, damn, the look on Oishi's face is pretty good. Right, straight face, straight face so Eiji doesn't hate him later.

 

Eiji’s smile freezes on his face. The eager look in his eyes turns dark, and he says calmly, “Why don’t you shut your fucking mouth?”

 

Yukimura blinks, fast and hard. "Eh?"

 

" _Eiji_ ," Oishi hisses, giving his arm a firm squeeze. "Don't be rude, it's fine." It isn't as if Yukimura doesn't have a _point_ , but…he hadn't expected him to be that blunt about it.

 

Fuji needs his camera. _Immediately_. 

 

Eiji shrugs off Oishi’s arm now, advancing on Yukimura. “Oishi cares more about tennis and about his team than anyone in the world. He’s good at doubles and singles and captaining, and any team in Japan would be _lucky_ to have him. If you don’t want Oishi, you’re so stupid--he makes any team better just by being a part of it, so you can keep your stupid elitist team, because I would trade every single member of Azobu for Oishi even if he was paralyzed and in a wheelchair!” 

 

He spins on his heel, and jerks a hand. “Oishi, we’re going.”

 

Sanada feels like he should say something. But really, what is there to say?

 

"Bye, Eiji, Oishi!" Fuji attempts cheerfully. Oishi, pleasantly flushed, manages a wave before turning hastily after Eiji.

 

Yukimura opens and closes his mouth, and finally gives in and looks at Niou, a little stricken. "Niou. Did I just get told?"

 

"Thoroughly," Yanagi pipes in.

 

"I didn't ask _you_ , Yanagi!" 

 

“Oishi’s bottoming tonight,” Niou mutters under his breath. “Yeah, boss, you got told.”

 

“I told you to call him Captain,” Sanada snarls in Niou’s general direction.

 

“Eh, he doesn’t mind. But yeah, you got told hard. Need some ice for that burn?”

 

Yukimura scowls at the fence. "Maybe. Get down here and play me. The rest of you, stop gawking, pick a partner and start hitting already! Sanada, nitpick the hell out of their swings." He picks up his racket and walks off with a pointed frown.

 

"Um," Marui warily attempts, "Buchou, your jersey?"

 

"Just leave it!" 

 

No more mpreg joking time, that much is obvious. Marui hurriedly sets it down on the bleachers and runs off to grab his own racket. 

 

"It was nice knowing you, Niou-kun," Fuji sympathetically says, giving his arm a pat. 

 

"You, too, Fuji! Both of you at once!"

 

It was nice knowing each other, Fuji supposes.

 

~~

 

Playing with Seigaku now is one of the most frustrating things in the world, if not _the_ most frustrating thing. 

 

Ryouma questions his sanity on a daily basis when it comes to practice. Kaidou is a far cry from Tezuka, and Momoshiro is…well. He's _Momo_ : a great friend, an excellent energy builder, but on the worst of days, Ryouma is still grinding his teeth and wanting to smash a few tennis balls into the back of his head. 

 

Insult to injury is the memory of not having yet another official match with Kintarou at the Nationals that summer, because Seigaku didn't even _make it there_. 

 

On about five different occasions, he considers leaving and going back to the states. There, he could actually play some real tennis, and not wait until high school, where it seems like his real competition is. Or maybe he should just go ahead and go pro--but that's about the same difference, and so instead here he is, curled up on a train to Osaka, grumpily sucking down more grape soda and wilting at the heat the moment he steps off into the station. 

 

At least this way, he gets his fix on a good game without having to harass anyone in Tokyo and hear all that obnoxious teasing about _how the mighty have fallen_. Or maybe that's just his dad. 

 

“KOSHIMAE!!!”

 

Kintarou is a little bit excited to see Ryouma, just possibly. He’d been so _careful_ not to get to the train station early, knowing that if he had, he’d just be waiting around and getting frustrated. Instead, he’d spent extra time putting effort into making sure the tennis courts and his bag were all extra-ready to go, and even touching up his room just in case Ryouma winds up tired and sweaty and wants to stay the night. 

 

(Then he’d spent a while staring out the window and thinking about making Ryouma tired and sweaty with tennis. He’d drooled onto his hand a little.)

 

Now he launches himself at Ryouma, latching onto him with strong arms, not worrying about hurting him, because if anyone can handle it, it’s the boy he likes playing more than any other. “Yeah! You’re heeeeere! Time for a tennis date!”

 

Ryouma is probably too used to this, considering how he barely sways with the amount of force Kintarou launches at him.

 

Rather than topple over, he merely scowls and grabs at his hat to keep it from falling off, one arm sort of half-slung about Kintarou. It's _habit_ , to keep him from bouncing. "It's too hot for you to be clinging to me," he complains all the same. "Next time, come down to Tokyo so we don't melt." 

 

Kintarou lets go, happily taking Ryouma’s arm in a somewhat-iron grip, tugging him down through the train station. “Shiraishi says I can’t go to Tokyo by myself again, but you can come here as much as you want! Hey, after we play tennis, we can get ice cream, right? It’s so hot, and that’s the perfect time for ice cream. Winner buys the ice cream! Ne, Koshimae, your arm muscles are getting really big after your summer training!”

 

"Are they?" Ryouma mutters, blinking down at where Kintarou grabs at him. Huh. Well. It's not like he looks at himself for extended periods, anyway, so how would he know. "Shiraishi isn't even your captain anymore, so why do you have to listen to what he says?" It's _October_ , it should be getting cold here already; Shiraishi isn't the one that has to suffer climate changes. Osaka is the worst.

 

“Shiraishi’s definitely still my captain!” Kintarou says, blinking large eyes. “Tezuka’s still your captain even though he’s gone pro now, right? Hey, you have to make sure to come to Nationals next year, yeah? Then we can play for real! I mean, we have to still have our tennis dates--are you gonna be captain next year?”

 

"Don't wanna." Ryouma shrugs off the question about Tezuka, because it's not as if the guy visits Seigaku anymore or anything. "Don't know about Nationals, either. I'm gonna be the only one that's any good at Seigaku next year." _Assuming I stay._

 

“That’s boring! Tennis is no fun if you don’t have strong people to play against and fun people to play with.” Kintarou’s brow furrows, and he tugs Ryouma down the stairs, tennis bag over one shoulder as he manhandles him to the tennis courts. “You should come to Shitenhouji! Oh, but we wouldn’t be able to be best rivals!”

 

"We've never played an official match against one another, what's 'best rivals' about that, anyway?" Ryouma sighs, letting himself be dragged along even as he rummages in his own bag for a Ponta. "Don't wanna come to Shitenhouji either, though. Too hot. Everyone that's good has graduated."

 

“Not _me_. And of course you’re my best rival, the best rival is the one you’ve never beaten, and neither of us have ever lost yet! But you will _definitely_ lose, Koshimae!” Kintarou uses the key he has fastened around his wrist, and lets them into the tennis courts, grabbing his racket from the bag before it hits the ground. “I got a new can of balls just for you, wanna open them?”

 

Come to think of it, he and Kintarou never _have_ actually finished a match, so there hasn't exactly been a loser. _Still_ , though; the threat is kind of tiresome at best. Ryouma rolls his eyes to the sky, setting his hat more firmly upon his head as he grabs his own racket. "Yeah, gimme." He likes the noise the cans make when they're opened. Kintarou knows that, too, probably. 

 

Kintarou is willing to sacrifice the satisfying pop and hiss of the opening of the can right now, just to know that Ryouma is getting all the pleasure out of it. When the can’s opened, he trots over to the other side of the court, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come on, Koshimae! I’ll let you have first serve!”

 

At least Kintarou brings back every bit of spark that Ryouma _used_ to feel when playing with or against his teammates at Seigaku. 

 

He gives the ball in his hand a squeeze, bounces it once (because damn if there isn't something really nice about seeing the way a new, fresh ball pops up on the court), and then tosses it up, forgoing a twist serve because it never makes a difference with Kintarou, anyway. "You keep saying _I'm_ your best rival, but it wasn't _me_ who kicked your ass at Nationals this year, now was it?" No one likes Rikkai's Kirihara, anyway.

 

That makes Kintarou’s face twist into a scowl, and he leaps for the ball, sending it flying back towards Ryouma with all of the aggression he wants to send at that stupid seaweed guy. “He’s not my rival! No one can beat Koshimae, and he’s the only one that will ever beat me!” It’s not as if the match was _important_ ; no one on Shitenhouji had won against Rikkai, and Shiraishi had given him cuddles afterwards and told him that’s how it used to be.

 

The power behind every last one of Kintarou's shots makes Ryouma's blood pump like none other, and it's somehow better when he manages to get him _irritated_. He grins, darting over to catch the ball from the corner, and slams it back. "At least you don't have to deal with him next year! Just me instead." _If I stay around._ He needs to say that one of these days--would have already to Kintarou's face, if he wasn't so annoyed (yeah, that's the word for it) by the way Kintarou would pout and wail and demand he _just come to Shitenhouji instead_. 

 

“Kirihara doesn’t scare me! I’ll deal with him real good!” Kintarou says confidently, whacking his racket so hard the air crackles around the edges. “Ne, Koshimae, take this!” He hits it hard enough that Ryouma will have to _jump_ , though not as high as Kintarou himself can.

 

Ah, yeah. Effort. Ryouma remembers what it's like putting forth a little bit of that. 

 

His leap upward is something of a hasty scramble--damn it, that's not fair--but he hits it bak anyway, losing his hat in the process and scowling about it after the fact. "You're not gonna have to deal with him anymore, that's the point," he growls. "At least come to Tokyo for high school, then you can knock him and the rest of his team out of the running early on."

 

“Don’t wanna!” Kintarou cheerfully answers with one of Ryouma’s personal epithets, doing a backflip on his way down from smashing the ball into one outside corner.

 

Ryouma decides to glare rather than chase after it, and stalks after his hat instead. "Fine. Sit in Osaka and melt then."

 

“Yeah!” Kintarou says, starting to stretch out the back of one arm. “Mm, hey, you want me to get another ball? That one went really far, sorry!”

 

"All of your shots always go really far, it's annoying," Ryouma grumbles underneath his breath. He dusts off his hat, sighs at it, and throws it at his tennis bag, knowing it's just going to repeatedly be whipped off his head in one way or another at this rate. "You can serve, it's a 7 point match." Or so they've just decided. 

 

Kintarou grabs another ball, looking uncertainly at Ryouma. “Okay, here I go! Love fifteen—-or, I mean, fifteen love!”

 

Ryouma gives him a put out stare. "Didn't you say at one point you wanted to be captain? How're you gonna do that when you can't even keep score?" 

 

“I can!” Kintarou hurls the ball at Ryouma, hard, and puts his everything into that one serve. “I’m not used to keeping my own scores, you know!”

 

"Tooyama-buchou is a _slacker_ ," Ryouma bites out in return, literally throwing himself forward in order to hit the ball back and _ow_ , that kind of hurts. 

 

Kintarou’s eyes light up fierce and dark, and he whirls in midair, slamming his racket so hard into the ball that he swears he sees a spark of some kind. “I like it when you call me that, Koshimae-fukubuchou!”

 

"Not gonna be your vice captain, don't call me that!" Ryouma huffily yells back, making another hasty dive for the ball because _damn it_ , he's got Kintarou riled up now and chasing is the name of the game. At least it's a cord ball, which he _knows_ Kintarou hates going after. "If I went to Shitenhouji, you'd just want to play me in tennis all day and wouldn't do captain-y things!"

 

A cord ball--Kintarou tries to change his leap in midair, and has to dive forward in order to hit back, sending it into a lob instead. “Super rude, Koshimae!” He scrambles up, ignoring scraped elbows and knees, knowing that Ryouma can do almost _anything_ with that lob, and wanting to be ready for it. “You’d wanna play me all day too! The best captains do tennis all day!”

 

"Not gonna be captain!" Kintarou knows him a little too well by now, and _likes_ hitting smashes, besides, so Ryouma grins a little when he darts back toward the baseline, solidly hitting the ball back…as another lob. It's probably Moon Volley if he squints. "I might not even _be_ in Japan next year at this rate." Ah. Oops. 

 

Koshimae is _really rude_ today. Kintarou bares his teeth in something like a grin, something like a snarl, and whirls around fast, whacking his racket into the lob before it even bounces, sending it back in a low, tight line almost faster than the eye can see. “Oi! You have to be in Japan! If you go, you’ll be gone, and who am I going to play? I’ll _chase you_ , Koshimae!”

 

"Okay, but _don't_ ," Ryouma grouses, taking a deep breath before he ends up skidding on the ground to smack the ball back over--another cord ball, which kinda lingers there for a moment before toppling over onto Kintarou's side. There's a compulsion to fix his hat when he picks himself up, and he just ends up raking a hand back through his sweaty hair instead. "You're in Osaka and I don't wanna play anyone else in middle school, so what's the point?" 

 

Kintarou picks up the ball, trying not to be put-out and upset, and pretty sure he’s far from managing it. “You’d rather go to America than come to play with me? I’ll make you regret that!” His serve is wild, full of pent-up rage, and he’s pretty sure it leaves some kind of smoking hole in the court.

 

Ryouma settles on staring at the ball rather than going after it. "Don't wanna hit that. You're gonna set the net on fire again, quit it." 

 

“Thirty fifteen,” Kintarou says, a veritable black cloud around his head as he stalks over to grab another new ball. “You can’t leave Japan until there’s no one left for you to beat, Koshimae. Don’t say you’re gonna go until you beat me!” _Don’t say you’re going to go._

 

"Technically," Ryouma moodily points out, "didn't I already beat you at last year's finals? It was a one-point match." Except they both know that isn't the same, doesn't count, and is boring at best, and so he sighs, shrugging. "Maybe you'll get more captain-y things done when I'm not around." 

 

Kintarou stares, and his hand clenches on the new ball, refusing to toss it over. “Are you saying this is the last time we’re going to have a date?” He asks, and he’d _meant_ for his voice to come out angry instead of a little bit lost.

 

Ryouma blinks over at him. "Huh? No, I'm not leaving _yet_." He shrugs awkwardly, and wishes for about the twentieth time that he still had his hat on and could duck underneath it. "Just dunno about next year. Momo-senpai and Kaidou-buchou are graduating, so it'll just be me at Seigaku, and I don't wanna be captain and no one else is good. Maybe I'll just go pro back in the states." 

 

Kintarou scowls. “You scared me! You just have to keep coming to Osaka until next year, I’ll make you want to stay!” Somehow. He’ll figure something out. “You never know, you could get a suuuuper rookie next year like you and me! Then you can make him be captain!” Finally he lets loose, putting everything he has into the serve.

 

"Osaka's hot and far _away!_ " Hitting _that_ ball back takes effort complete with gritted teeth, and okay, maybe that _is_ a little bit of a reason to stay longer. "No one's as good as we are, don't wanna sit around waiting for that!"

 

“It’s only far away because you don’t live in Osaka!” Kintarou returns, whacking the ball back with a two-handed grip that uses all of his muscles, landing heavily on the court with both feet before springing up again. “The more you play me, the better we both get, so just stay here!”

 

"Told you it's too hot like fifteen million times now," Ryouma grunts back, returning fire with fire with a backhand of his own. Kintarou doesn't leave him many options, honestly. "Make it colder and maybe. Does it ever even snow here?" 

 

“I’ll MAKE it snow!” Sure, that makes sense. Kintarou has to move his whole body to return this hit, and that sends a thrill through him like nothing else. “I’ll play you so hard it’ll have to snow to calm me down!”

 

Coming from Kintarou, that's _sort_ of believable. 

 

"At least a foot of snow," Ryouma warns him, and he hits in deep to the left corner, chest heaving a little from the effort it takes to get back from Kintarou's inevitable chase after it, "or I'm not gonna keep coming. And that's not even a _lot_ of snow, you should see New York in the winter." 

 

“I’ll get snow if I have to run to Hokkaido and bring it back in a bag!” Kintarou says, and if it means Ryouma will stay in Osaka, he’s not sure he wouldn’t try. He dives, turning over in midair to catch the ball on his racket, and his face turns into a snarl as he hears the sound of the ball thunking off the side of his racket. Not _nearly_ as powerful as he’d intended.

 

"Ah, whoops--" Ryouma considers it a break on his arm to hit a softer shot for the first time in ages, and that's probably Rin, judging by how the spin is nullified in an instant and it sort of floats back over the net. Ah, he wants to play Sanada again, even if he always looks angry and constipated. "Don't be dumb, it'll just melt in a bag."

 

“Not if I carry it really fast--ugh, I’ll carry my own refrigerator with me!” Kintarou insists. He scoops the ball up, and passes it over to Ryouma, a gentle toss. “Your serve, Koshimae. Thirty all.” There are some refrigerators that aren’t so big, he reasons.

 

"You have to plug a fridge in to make that idea work," Ryouma mildly points out, and catches the ball before trotting back over to the baseline. "Maybe," he suddenly begins, then hesitates, and shrugs the dumb, weird idea off. "Never mind!"

 

 _Maybe we could go up to Hokkaido together and see actual snow that won't melt by the time it's back here_ except that has nothing to do with tennis and nope, he's not suggesting that. 

 

“I’ll do it!” Kintarou insists. For Ryouma, he’ll do it. Kind of no matter what. “I’ve never seen snow, but I’ll go get all of it, and you’ll like Osaka then!”

 

Never mind, guess he has to say it now. "Forget it. Let's just go up to Hokkaido and play tennis in the snow one weekend." Yeah. That makes it tennis-y. Also, he'll probably win because he doubts Kintarou deals with cold all that well. 

 

Kintarou’s eyes light up. “Really? Ahhh, that’s PERFECT! And then you won’t be mad about the heat! What’s tennis like in snow? Is it like sand? Is it fluffy like clouds, or like cotton? Can we get there by train?”

 

"It's slippery and wet and cold and you're not gonna like it," Ryouma warns, and smacks a twist serve firmly over the net. "Just means I'll beat you for sure, basically!" 

 

“I’ll believe that when you do it!” No one ever will besides Ryouma, that’s for sure. Kintarou will kill anyone who tries--well, kill them with tennis, anyway. “Is it slippery like natto? Does it get all neba-neba between your fingers?” He smacks the twist serve solidly back over the net, watching it fly in a tight, low arc.

 

Just _hearing_ that sound effect makes Ryouma reflexively gag--and subsequently miss the ball entirely. "It's just slippery like water! Ugh, don't _say that_ , it's really gross." He's having flashbacks to Kikumaru and Fuji tormenting him over lunch now.

 

Kintarou’s eyes light up. “That’s three to two now, Koshimae! Do you not like neba-neba? I thought everyone up north liked natto. I like takoyaki way better!”

 

"Japanese food in general isn't good, but natto is _especially_ bad," Ryouma mutters, grimacing again in an attempt not to gag once more. He grumpily stalks after the ball. "I'm serving again, no neba-neba comments."

 

Kintarou tries not to think about other neba-neba comments, and fails. “Sorry, Koshimae! I keep thinking about neba-neba stuff now. I’ll try to stop.” Not that he doesn’t think about neba-neba things when Ryouma’s around, anyway. Or before he’s around. Or after, in the mornings when he wakes up rather neba-neba himself.

 

"You're as bad as Fuji-sempai." He wants to play Fuji again, too, actually, in a _real_ match, not one that's in the rain and sort of weird, for that matter. Ryouma heaves a sigh, tosses up the ball, and slams another twist serve over the net, right to Kintarou's face. That's revenge for the neba-neba.

 

Ahh, Koshimae’s being aggressive now. Kintarou’s face splits in a huge grin. “Yeah, nice!!” 

 

He turns a backflip to get back in time, and smashes his racket into the ball while he’s still midair, sending Ryouma dashing to the other end of the court. “Woohoo! That’s the Koshimae I love playing!”

 

"Noisy," Ryouma hisses in protest, but yeah, okay, maybe he is a little more into it when he's annoyed about neba-neba. He barely catches himself from face planting when he dives after the next ball, and returns it with a sharp, hard backhand. 

 

The speed on that return is blinding, and Kintarou uses every bit of his own power to jump after it, feeling his arm ache and twinge at the feel of it in a way that makes his eyes widen. “Just like that, just like that!” he crows. “I’ll talk about neba-neba all day if you keep playing like this!”

 

Ryouma gags again. "I'm going to throw up on you," he flatly threatens, shuddering when he hits the next ball back, somewhat falteringly. "Super gross!" 

 

Hmm, it seems that talking about neba-neba only inspires Ryouma for so long. Kintarou returns that sad little ball with a smash, liking the noise it makes when it whips through the air. “Tell me about snow then! Where did you see it?”

 

"America," is the matter-of-fact answer, and Ryouma regains enough composure to give that smash a properly fast slice of a return. "Up in the city, it's always snowing and super cold in the winter. You'd freeze to death." 

 

“Gross! I bet you’d have to wear a _coat_!” The idea is enough to make Kintarou shudder, and he only barely returns the slice. Ah, that’s not a great ball. “Do you have a coat?”

 

"Yeah, like, a lot of them. You can borrow one when we go to Hokkaido." There's a chance to tie this thing up again, and Ryouma takes it, smashing the ball back directly _behind_ Kintarou with a grin. 

 

Kintarou watches the ball go with a dumbfounded glee. “That was _great_ , Koshimae!! Ahh, I bet your coats all smell really good!” Whoops, that’s probably something Shiraishi would have told him not to say, but whatever. “When do you wanna go?”

 

Kintarou says weird stuff all the time, so Ryouma ignores that--mostly. It kind of makes him shrug and scuff his toe against the court. "Dunno. Maybe next weekend. We can go again when it gets closer to Christmas and stuff. It'll almost be like it is in America." Except not at all, but that's fine. 

 

“Oh yeah?” Kintarou’s never been to America, but if that’s where Ryouma’s from, it’s definitely a place he wants to visit. “I heard there’s all kinds of fields and stuff for growing food there, we could eat off the ground!”

 

"…That's gross," Ryouma deadpans. "We're definitely not doing that. Hey, it's a tie, take me out to ice cream." That's _totally_ what the agreement was. 

 

“Okay!” Kintarou agrees cheerfully, and loops his arm through Ryouma’s, wiping sweat-soaked hair off of his face. “Oh, my money is back in my dorm room, I didn’t think I’d lose. Wanna come see my room before we get ice cream?”

 

Ryouma makes a face at him, and tugs his arm away grab his hat up and stuff it onto his head. "Someone's thinking highly of themselves. Yeah, let's go back there, it's fine." 

 

The sudden excitement of _Koshimae in my room, Koshimae is coming to my room_ overshadows the sudden excitement of _Time to buy Koshimae ice cream_. Kintarou practically skips back to the dorms. “I’m just on the third floor! We all live in dorms here, it’s nice. You wanna say hi to anyone? Yuu-nee-san and Ko-nee-san are usually around right now.”

 

"Definitely don't wanna," is Ryouma's hasty retort. That sounds, in fact, like the worst thing, though he's sure it would make for a brave story retelling to Momo-sempai later. He pokes warily at a rickety floorboard with his toe. "I don't think I'd like living here."

 

“It’s a lot of fun!” Kintarou jumps up and slaps the doorframe, because he can, and toes off his shoes at the door. The stairs are wooden, and the slats curve up at the sides, splitting a bit under the weight of nails, though any rough edges have been worn down by the trod of hundreds of feet. “I’m home, everyone!” 

 

A chorus of “Welcome home, Kin-chan!” greets his pronunciation, and Kintarou beams, for once passing by the open doors without saying hello, heading straight for his room. “In here, Koshimae!”

 

Ryouma offers a half-hearted "Cheers" as he hurriedly walks past, grateful, at least, that it seems no one is of the mind to chase him. He ducks into Kintarou's room, unsurprised by the mess he immediately finds, and just ends up heaving a sigh at all of it. " _You'd_ think it was a lot of fun. I bet you can't even have pets here." 

 

“Well,” Kintarou admits, “you’re not _supposed_ to. Don’t step on my turtle! No, wait, it went to play with Kuubriel today, you’re fine. Ahhh, I know I have a couple hundred yen in here somewhere!” He starts shaking every pair of shorts he can find, listening intently for jingles.

 

Ryouma wonders if he should put him out of his misery by offering to pay now or later. He plops himself down onto the end of the bed, peering over at him. "What's a Kuubriel?" 

 

Kintarou finds a ten-yen piece tucked into the hole in one of his flip-flops. Sweet, a good start! “Kuubriel is Shiraishi-buchou’s beetle. They’re having a playdate. Do you like animals, Koshimae? Ahhh, of course you do, everyone likes animals!”

 

"I like cats." Ryouma's head cocks. "Why would you have a pet beetle? They die really fast and stuff." 

 

“When it gets old we swap it out with a new one,” Kintarou confides. “I think he knows, but it makes him happy. It was Chitose’s idea, he’s so smart! Oh, sweet, a five! Make a wish, Koshimae!” Up to 15 yen now, a very good start.

 

"That seems like a lot of work for a beetle. Cats are better," Ryouma says matter-of-factly, idly kicking a shoe of Kintarou's towards him for inspection. "I can buy this time, if you want. Or we can just save it for next time and you can really treat me." 

 

“No way! We’re definitely doing ice cream! This is an important date!” Kintarou shakes out a pillowcase, nets another 45 yen, and his eyes light up. Almost to one cone of ice cream, now, and there are a lot of clothes he still hasn’t checked.

 

Ryouma rolls his eyes and flops backward, staring up at the ceiling. "What's so important about it? We always play tennis and eat."

 

“But this is number _twelve_. That’s divisible by three, and I already missed three and six and nine.”

 

Ryouma's brow furrows. "…Okay?" Kintarou is so bizarre sometimes. "I don't get it."

 

Kintarou hops up, rooting on the top unused shelf, and finding two dusty 100-yen pieces. “Got it! Let’s have ice cream, and I’ll do it after!”

 

Now he's even more confused. Ryouma slowly rolls to the side. "Do what after? What are we doing and why is three a big deal?"

 

“You’ll like it,” Kintarou assures him, and tugs him to the door. “Nee-san promised. Bye, everyone! We’re going for ice cream!”

 

“Bye, Kin-chan!” A few well-wishes follow them out the door, and along the path to the ice cream truck.

 

Ryouma hates not knowing things and having them planned out. 

 

Predictably, he's grumpy and cross about being dragged to ice cream, half-expecting Kintarou to throw him in a pool of soft serve vanilla or something similar. He wouldn't like that at all, even though it's so damned hot that he's going to melt. 

 

Ice cream is good, at least, and he gnaws slowly on his popsicle, a wary gaze trained upon Kintarou. "Are you ever gonna tell me what it is we're doing?"

 

Kintarou blinks. “Don’t you know? Everyone said it was important on the third date, but Nee-san and Kenya-nii-chan said I could do it on multiples of three, too. You want me to do it now?” A fluttery little feeling in his stomach is probably just ice cream.

 

Ryouma's stare is both blank and exasperated. "I don't…yeah, whatever it is, just do it now." It's a little less frustrating to keep trying to _ask_ about it if Kintarou just wants to _do it_.  Is this some weird tennis thing?

 

Kintarou shifts his ice cream to the other hand, where his palm is less sweaty. “Okay! Get ready, Koshimae!” 

 

Then he takes a deep breath, tries to memorize where Ryouma’s lips are, and leans forward to press their lips firmly together as his cheeks erupt into a flaming blush.

 

Oh.

 

Wait.

 

 _Oh_. 

 

Ryouma blinks rapidly, any and all words he had in mind catching in his throat, and he sort of chokes on his breath for a moment, standing there still and shocked and--

 

_Kintarou just kissed me._

 

Heat washes over his own face mercilessly, and he suddenly remembers that he should do something--except should he? Wait, was Kintarou serious about the whole… _date_ thing?

 

He sucks in a shuddering breath, rocks back, and nearly drops his popsicle at the end of it all. "Ah," he weakly manages.

 

Kintarou beams uncertainly at him, then takes a big bite of ice cream. “There! Now I did that, so you don’t have to worry that I missed the three-date mark. We can be normal now.” Except Ryouma still looks _puzzled_ \--is it possible he doesn’t know about the rule? “Everyone says you do it after three dates,” he adds, slightly more shyly.

 

It's impossible not to be anything but _nervous_ now.

 

Ryouma feels like he missed some very, very big announcement--how was _he_ supposed to know that Kintarou thought of them this way?--and he hates that more than anything. He opens his mouth, shuts it again, and tries not to look too confused. It doesn't work. "Tennis dates," he says, as if that makes it make a little bit more sense. 

 

Kintarou nods slowly. “Tennis _dates_.” Koshimae is really cute, even if he’s just saying random words now.

 

His popsicle drips a little onto his hand. "Does that mean we're… _dating_ -dating?"

 

The question isn’t one he’d expected, and Kintarou shifts, a bit nervously. “A-aren’t we? I keep asking you on dates, and you keep coming...I _knew_ I should have kissed you sooner, sorry, Koshimae! Every three dates from now on, I promise!”

 

"I…kinda thought it was just tennis?" Ryouma tries not to think about how pathetic that sounds. "I-I mean, that's…it's…I just never thought of it." 

 

That's a lie, the more he flips it around his head, and remembers how it kind of felt good when Kintarou would tackle and hug him out of nowhere and how he always got so _excited_ when Ryouma showed up. His skin flushes hot again and he glances away. 

 

“Oh.”

 

Just tennis. Well, he _likes_ tennis, that’s for sure. Kintarou tries forcing a smile, for the first time in his life, as the fluttery thing in his belly stops fluttering and starts sinking, getting heavier by the second. “Well, okay. No, wait, I don’t get it, we’re eating ice cream. That’s not tennis.”

 

"I didn't say eating ice cream was bad," Ryouma quickly tries to amend. "It's--I just…didn't expect it. The dating thing. It's not like I'm saying 'no', I'm just…" _Not really saying yes._ How did he _miss_ all of this, anyway? 

 

Kintarou’s smile dims, and he scratches the side of his neck. “Uh….” This isn’t how he’d meant it to go at all. Maybe a kiss was stupid. No, it had been good. Well, but Ryouma is upset now. Ahhh, this is confusing. “So...do you wanna? Or no?”

 

"…Dunno." He doesn't really mean that, but this all feels so out of left field that he's not sure what he should say. "I…" Ryouma swallows hard. _Kiss me again and maybe I can decide._ "Can I think about it?" No. Bad. Ugh, why can't this be tennis?

 

Kintarou chews on his lip, arms falling down as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I guess? Yeah, sure. Course!” Except that he’d been confident that Good Things were happening and now they’re sort of...not. “You wanna...play tennis again? No, wait, you said you had to go back tonight.”

 

"Mnn. Yeah. I do." Ryouma awkwardly finishes off his popsicle, and flips the stick away. "We can still do Hokkaido this weekend. I mean, if you want."

 

“Yeah!” Dating or not, Koshimae is still Koshimae. “You’re the most fun person I know. I _definitely_ want to go to Hokkaido! Uh, I only have 13 yen, though. How much does it cost?”

 

This part he can do. It's not kissing and it's not _actually dating_ and how much of a chance does he have if he asks Momo-sempai for advice about this? Ryouma gulps a little at the thought. Maybe not Momo-sempai. "It's my treat. You bought ice cream, so it's my turn."

 

Kintarou beams, even if it’s not quite as bright as it had been earlier. “Okay! That sounds fair!” Probably. Not like he knows how much it costs, but that sounds about right. “We don’t have to eat food off the ground if you don’t want, Koshimae. I’ll have fun if you’re there.”

 

"We're definitely not eating food off of the ground," Ryouma mumbles. Right. He has until the weekend to figure this out, for better or for worse. "We're gonna eat good food. And I'll bring an extra coat for you to wear." The fact that he kind of is looking forward to Kintarou in _his_ coat is telling, no doubt.

 

“Great! I can—” He stops himself, a little awkward. Should he say that he’s excited about smelling like Koshimae? Probably not, if they’re not dating.

 

The best and most exciting thing in his life slowly fades away again, and his smile turns uncertain. “So, when do you wanna leave?”

 

"Dunno." Ryouma shifts nervously, exhales, and then decides it's for the best if he goes with his original plan before he asks anyone else for advice. "Can you like…kiss me one more time?" Strictly for decision-making purposes. "Then maybe I'll just…go home."

 

It doesn’t really follow the rule of three that he’d been told about, but Kintarou nods, nervous, and bobs forward. “Sure.” He’d meant when did Ryouma want to leave for _Hokkaido_ , but this works too, he guesses. 

 

He’s more nervous this time, even though Ryouma’s expecting it, because it feels so much more important. “Okay,” he mutters to himself, and closes his eyes, cheeks burning as he leans in for a sweet, light kiss.

 

When he knows it's coming, it's…even more kinds of nice. 

 

It's fast and light and not much, but when Ryouma leans back, he can taste the ice cream Kintarou's been eating on his lips, and he licks at them again for good measure, his own face flaming. He reaches up to yank on the brim of his hat, sucking in a soft, unsteady breath. "Thanks," he mumbles. What the hell do you say when someone kisses you, anyway?

 

Kintarou nods. He’d sort of been hoping to hear that yes, they’re dating now, but maybe Ryouma just needs a little more time. That’s...all right, he supposes. “Is it okay? Did I do it right? No one would practice with me.”

 

"I-it was good." Not that he has anyone to compare it with. Karupin doesn't count. "Um…I'll meet up with you here, Saturday morning. We'll go to Hokkaido together." Which is another date, basically. 

 

“Yeah, okay!” Kintarou tries for a big smile, and knows it’s not his usual best. “We’ll definitely take Hokkaido by storm! And we’ll find something good to eat, even if it isn’t takoyaki!” Ryouma is getting on a train now, he knows, and they’re somehow _less_ together than they had been this morning, as far as he’d known.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
